


Many Roads to Hell

by boxoftheskyking



Series: Many Roads to Hell [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Blood, Graphic Violence/Gore, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mutilation, Profanity, Racism, Sexism, Suicidal Ideation, Torture, Violence, Warning: child death/child injury, domestic abuse, eventual slash, incomplete John/Sherlock and Sebastian/Jim, mentions of child prostitution, no relationship role models here, relatively explicit sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxoftheskyking/pseuds/boxoftheskyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after Sherlock's death, John meets a man who claims the great detective is alive. Together, they begin to search for Sherlock, with entirely different intentions. Truths are told, though lies are easier, something impossible starts, and what's done can never really be undone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Break in Routine

  
**November**  


 

Grocery shopping is one of those necessary evils that really, really makes John depressed. It’s that constant, repetitive, horribly _adult_ chore that reminds you that everything you’d expected, everything you’d hoped for and dreamed about as a kid, all that is complete bullshit. When you’re a kid and you imagine yourself, finally an adult, finally powerful and strong and in charge of your own life, you never imagine grocery shopping. Superheroes don’t have to get the milk. John hates it, the misery of it, the orderly shelves and the smiling cashiers, and the _lists_ , the fucking _lists_.

Especially lately. 

He’s only a block from the shop when he’s yanked half-off his feet and into the shadow of dead-end alley. 

There are a number of ways to react when confronted with a pistol in one’s face. John fancies himself relatively experienced in these types of situations, but has to admit that the combination of the pistol, the broad grin, and “Doctor Watson. Big fan,” rasped out like sandpaper has him somewhat at a loss.

“Excuse me?” is all he can think to say as he shifts both bags of shopping into one hand. The man smiles wider, face half in the shadow of a low-brimmed hat.

“I’m fan of your blog. Or I _was_ , anyway. Thought I’d say hello.”

“Is this how you usually say hello?” John slowly angles himself away from the cement wall, calculating the consequences of making a break for it. His breathing is even but his head feels like he’s just woken up, like fog is finally dissipating. 

“Only to the people I really . . . let’s say ‘ _admire_ ’.” The man has remained absolutely still for this entire exchange; John can barely see his chest rise and fall, though he’s barely a foot away.

“I’m flattered. What do you want?”

“I was thinking, see. I’ve been thinking a lot. And I figure we can help each other out.”

“Oh?” The absurdity of the situation feels so familiar he’s having a difficult time not giggling. He has the sudden and ridiculous urge to thank this shadowy figure, this rusty blade of a man with his sardonic whisper and his too-welcome danger. 

The man’s next words stop the laugh in his throat, turning his blood cold.

“I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes. I’m gonna guess that you are, too.”

John gapes for a moment, sharp sting in his chest turning to rage at the man in front of him. 

“Sherlock Holmes is dead,” he spits, ignoring the gun and shoving himself away from the wall. The man lets him, standing back with a look of contemptuous amusement.

“Fine. If that’s how you want it.” He turns and saunters down to the darkened end of the dead-end alley. “I’ll be seeing you,” he tosses back, giving a little wave and starting to hum to himself.

“Hey! Hey, wait! Who are you? Who the fuck are you?” The pain in John’s chest is turning into an itch, a picked-off scab. The itch starts to spread underneath his skin and without thinking he starts to chase after the man, dropping bags of milk and apples and a full bottle of gin. He can almost hear the echo of footsteps ahead of him, sure and long and--

He nearly smashes face-first into the wall at the end of the alley, blinking in the darkness and panting. The man isn’t there. 

John kicks the concrete and gives himself a minute to calm his breathing. _It’s nothing_ , he tells himself. _It has to be nothing. Otherwise I’m … No. It has to be nothing_. He turns back and trudges back towards the light, gathering up the ruins of his shopping as he goes. He holds the bags just a bit too tight and walks a fraction too fast until he half-collapses against the wall inside his tiny flat, gasping. Each breath feels different: he’s seen a ghost, he’s learned to fly, he’s run a mile, he’s fallen--

_No, no, no_.

He leans against the wall and breathes. Traces his thoughts, like Ella taught him. _How do you feel_? Disappointed. Betrayed. Terrified. Bereft. _What is the thought that brought you here?_ I thought I was going to die. _No._ I thought I was-- _No._ I thought he was-- _No._  

For a minute, I thought that that last six months were a dream. And I finally woke up.

_Were they a dream?_ No.

_Are you awake?_ Yes. Yes, I’m awake.

He steadies himself and stands, back straight. _Yes, Yes, I am awake._


	2. A Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man proposes an arrangement.

**December**

John is at the cinema, of all places, when the man finds him again. He doesn’t really want to see a film--the idea of sitting still in a room full of people for two hours is vaguely horrifying--but Harry and Greg have both been urging him to get out of the house. “Go to the cinema, John,” Harry pleaded over the phone. “Fuck, go the park and feed the ducks. I don’t fucking care. Do something _normal_.” So here he is.

He’s waiting in the queue to buy a ticket for something or other when somebody bumps his shoulder. 

John turns to glare at the offender, then freezes as he recognizes the sharp nose, the curl of his lip, the comfortable threat in the set of his spine. The man isn’t looking at him, just reading the movie titles.

“It’s all shite, you know.” He sounds perfectly pleasant, almost apologetic on behalf of the film industry. He sounds vaguely Irish, his t’s a bit soft, long a’s settled at the front of his mouth. Probably the West somewhere, with London over the top.

“What do you recommend instead?” John dares, not looking at him.

“I dunno. Go to the park, I suppose. Feed the ducks.”

“So you’re spying on me.”

“Not really.” The man shrugs. “I mean, I’ve tapped your phone, but you don’t use it much.”

“You’ve tapped my phone. Right.” John purses his lips. “Why?”

“Wanted a chat.” 

They stand for a moment in silence as the queue moves around them.

“Thought I’d imagined you, actually,” John says, surprising himself. “Melting away into the dark like that. That’s a neat trick.”

“Learned from the best.”

“Phone tapping, disappearing acts, stalking--”

“Well--”

“What do you want?”

The man rocks onto the balls of his feet and back down. “Let’s go outside. Someplace less lively.” He turns and makes for the exit, not looking over his shoulder. John follows like he doesn’t have a choice.

They find a bench near a busy intersection. The man keeps his hands in his pockets and looks everywhere but at John. John is tense, but makes the effort to look casual.

“You said Sherlock is alive,” he bursts out as soon as a gaggle of tourists pass them by. “Why did you say that?” 

“‘Cause it’s true.”

“It-- I saw him fall from the roof of a building. I saw the body.”

The man shrugs, looking unimpressed. “Obviously, it wasn’t the right body. Or it wasn’t a dead body. I don’t really care. The point is, he’s alive. It’s not that hard, you know. Faking your death. Done it once or twice myself.”

“Alive.” John fists his hands on his knees.

“You want proof? I figured you’d want proof. Here.” The man holds out his phone, which shows a terrifyingly familiar face. It’s sunny in the photograph, and the subject is in sunglasses and short sleeves, hair shorn close, but John still recognizes him. He’d recognize the sole of his foot, one curl on his head.

“Where did you--?”

“Contacts. This is from two months ago. The idiots have lost him since, but he’s out there, somewhere.”

John suddenly finds himself floating, suspended as his brain spins inside his skull. He closes his eyes and drops his head between his knees, gasping.

“Easy, now,” the man says, placing a firm hand in the middle of his back. The fit passes and John sits back, face studiously blank. The man sticks his hand back in his pocket, shifting a few inches away from John as if to apologize for the touch.

“Anyway,” the man continues. “I assume you’ll want to track him down. So do I. We might as well work together.”

“You want to find Sherlock?” It’s been so long since he’s said the name, heard the name and thought “life,” that his throat almost hurts as he forces it out. “Why?”

The man turns and looks him straight in the eye.

“Because I want to kill him.”

John stares. “What?”

“I owe him.” John notices for the first time that although the man’s mouth is constantly curled on one side, his eyes are completely dead. Light falls into them. John has a sudden flash of Sherlock’s voice, reading aloud from the book John had bought him as a joke. _Black holes. Gravitational pull so strong that light itself cannot escape._

“Why?”

The man smiles slowly, mirthlessly, and doesn’t answer.

“You know that if you try to hurt him, I will kill you,” John says bluntly. The man nods.

“Yeah, I know. But we’ve got to find him, first.”

“How do I know you’ll--”

“Look. You want to find him, but you’ve got nothing to go on. I want to find him, and I’ve got a whole network I can use, but I don’t know him, what he’d do, where he’d go.”

“Why would you want me?”

The man shrugs. “Don’t do so well on my own.”

John stares at him, waiting for more, waiting for a laugh or an explanation. The man just stares blankly at him, a cynical corpse.

“If Sh-- If Sherlock’s alive,” John begins. “Then there will be others looking for him. Jim Moriarty, he’ll be--”

The man barks out a laugh through a twisted mouth. “Jim Moriarty’s dead. Blew his own brains out. Pow.” He sticks two fingers in his mouth and jerks them, pantomiming the recoil of a gun. John presses the heels of his hands against his temples, breathing consciously. 

“But I’d have-- We’d have heard about it, wouldn’t we? In the papers or something?”

The man shakes his head. “I cleaned it up. Didn’t want--” He looks down at his hands, which twist in the fabric of his jacket sleeves. When he finally continues, his words trip over each other, voice raw and unused. “They’d have run an obituary. The papers. With that stupid fucking name and that stupid fucking . . . _headshot_. ‘Children’s TV actor dead in murder-suicide.’ Makes me sick. Couldn’t have him-- When he was alive, he called the shots. That’s fine. But now it’s on me and I-- Well. Now it’s on me.” His face falls blank again and his hands still.

John stares at the man, the uneven, straw-colored hair and the scar on his temple. “Who are you?”

“Nobody. Less than. Face in a crowd.” 

“You’re one of Moriarty’s men. That’s why you want Sherlock dead.”

The man shrugs, mouth pursing for a moment before breaking into a harsh chuckle. “It’s funny. You were so convinced that mine was still out there and yours was gone, and I know it’s the opposite. One-hundred-eighty degrees.”

John takes a moment, looking at the photograph. “If you have people close enough to take a photograph, why haven’t you killed him yet?”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Very good. No, it's got to be face-to-face. It's stupid, but that's the way it's going to be. I've decided. Gives me something to do, anyway."

“So you’re proposing-- What? What are you proposing? A gentlemen’s agreement? We both track him down together and then, what? Race for the finish line?”

“Something like that. I’ve got some housekeeping to do, too. I could use a hand. You’ll like that part.”

“Housekeeping?”

“There’s a whole web out there, Dr. Watson. And without the spider it’s eating itself alive. Someone’s got to do something. Use it, then burn it. Like a bridge, you know?”

“That’s not how I cross bridges.”

The man shrugs.

John looks at him for a long moment. He stares back mildly.

“I’m offering you a chance, Dr. Watson. And I’m asking for your help. Maybe that’s surprising. Maybe that’s weak. I don’t really care. I am not above . . . anything. I’m not above anything at all. Your move.”

John rises unevenly, handing the phone back. 

“What’s your name?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What do I call you, then?”

“Anything you like.”

“If you hurt him, I will kill you.”

“Offer’s on the table. I’m a man of my word. All I’ve got is my word. Here,” he holds out the phone. “Keep it. It’s got all the information I have. You think you can find him without me, good luck. Happily ever after, all that. I’m gonna bet you can’t. You’ve got everything I have, I promise I won’t make a move until I hear from you.”

“How the _hell_ do you expect me to trust you?”

The man shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t care. Think about it. Probably going to be dangerous.”

John freezes. “What?”

“Two fucked up soldiers against the whole fucking world? Trying to find a man who doesn’t want to be found?” The man rolls his neck with a grin. “Stupidly dangerous, I’d say.”

“It's a suicide mission,” John says slowly, unable to look away from the dead dark eyes.

“Everything’s a suicide mission, Dr. Watson. Everything worth doing, anyway.”

“This is crazy. This is completely insane. This entire conversation,” he gestures between them helplessly. “Is insane. This isn’t how it works.”

The man shrugs. “Think about it,” he says, settled lower on the bench and closing his eyes. "Jumping off buildings, blowing your brains out, playing dead. That's not how it's supposed to work, either."

John slips the phone into his pocket and turns away, brow furrowed. He starts off down the road, paying no attention to the streets, the cars, the passersby. He shoots a look over his shoulder to the man, still on the bench, eyes closed, completely and utterly isolated as the world moves around him. For a split second he has the eerie feeling that comes with spotting an unexpected reflection, the side of a bus or an oddly-placed mirror. Then it’s gone, and John turns away again. 

He hails a cab and orders “The Diogenes Club.” Before he can confront the surreality of today, he needs a word with the British Government.


	3. The Diogenes Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day progresses in a decidedly confusing fashion. Mycroft is less than helpful.

Mycroft sits in the same chair everyday, takes his tea the same way, drinks the exact same pour of scotch in the same glass. Walking up to him in the dead silence of the room feels like stepping back in time.

Mycroft looks surprised when John passes into his line of sight, just for a moment before sighing and rising to escort John into a sound-proof room. He sits in a plush wing-back chair, but John ignores his gesture to its twin and remains standing.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Mycroft asks carefully, smile gracious but eyes uncertain. John hasn’t seen him for nearly four months, and their last meeting was less-than-cordial.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighs. “John, I am a man of my word. All surveillance beyond the standard for a British citizen of your demographic has been ceased. We don’t need to rehash--”

“Not that, Mycroft. Not about that. About Sherlock.” 

Mycroft stares, mouth falling open. “I-- What would I--?”

“You tell me. I’m giving you a chance to tell me, right now. All of it.”

Mycroft looks at him for a moment, then sighs deeply and runs his hand over his eyes. John settles back on his heels, folding his arms clenching his jaw.

“I thought that this might happen, sooner or later.”

John holds his breath.

“I take it you’ve been back to Baker Street then? Gone through his old things?”

“Wait, what?”

“I swear to you, if I thought it would help anything, I would have told you.”

John blinks, confused. “Told me what?”

“I assume you found his, what did he call it? His ‘last resort.’ If I’d known where he kept it, you can be sure it would have been cleaned out years ago.”

“His-- Cocaine? You’re talking about cocaine?”

Mycroft stares. “Yes, of course. Did you not find it? As far as I know, he only stumbled once in the time you lived together.” Mycroft’s mouth twists and he looks down at his hands. “I was very-- He was doing well, really.”

John takes a shaky step and sinks into the empty chair. “You’re telling me he used. In the year before he--”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? To berate me for letting my brother down, for letting him fall back into--”

“No. God-- _Christ_ , no that’s--” John rubs his eyes, letting out a groan of desperation. “Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

Mycroft looks around in alarm, as though looking for assistance from an absent party.

“John? Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

John looks up, eyes rimmed in red, feeling like he hasn’t slept in weeks. “You’re not going to tell me he’s alive.”

“Alive?” Mycroft gapes. “Good Lord, why would I tell you that? Why would I say that?”

John pulls the stranger’s phone out of his pocket, finds the photo and passes it over. He scrubs his fingers through his hair, breathing deliberately.

“This day. This fucking day. What am I supposed to do with any--?”

“This isn’t Sherlock, John,” Mycroft says deliberately. He is looking at John with barely-disguised pity.

“What? Of course it is, _look_ at it, Mycroft!”

“Some similarities, yes, but this is not my brother.” Mycroft leans forward carefully, setting the phone on the table beside him. “John, I know you miss him. I miss him, too. And of course your brain would latch onto--”

“I’m not crazy, Mycroft!”

Mycroft raises his hands placatingly. “Of course not. Of course not. But seeing this image, having the possibility planted in your mind, of course your brain would . . . manipulate the evidence to suit a desired result. We buried him, John.”

John slumps back in the chair, taking up the phone and staring at the photo. “You really don’t see it?”

“Like I said, similarities. But I know my brother.”

“I do-- I thought I did.”

“John,” Mycroft ventures. “I hate to suggest it. But perhaps--given this incident--it might be wise to meet twice a week with--”

“If you mention my therapist, I will black your eye.”

Mycroft shuts his mouth, stunned. John huffs out a harsh breath and rises, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He turns on his heel and leaves the room, ignoring Mycroft’s concerned call behind him. 

Two hours later, he’s nursing a gin and tonic and still staring at the photograph, trying to enumerate the differences between this man and his-- Sherlock. He supposes the nose could be different, and as he can’t see the eyes . . . But he isn’t convinced. There is a feeling, a tightening in his muscles, an aching in his bones, that says _Sherlock Is Alive_.

His phone rings and he jumps. 

“John?” Mycroft sounds tinny and small. “John, I did some research.”

“Yeah?” John forces out, throat tight.

“According to the CCTV feeds from this afternoon, you got that phone from a man, didn’t you? A strange man?”

John sighs. “Yes.”

“Sebastian Moran.”

“You found-- Of course you did.”

“Age twenty-nine. Born in Gort, County Galway. Raised in Belfast and Liverpool before his mother settled in London. Army sniper, before a dishonorable discharge three years ago. I believe-- Yes, Staff Sergeant at the time of discharge. Since then has been ‘under the radar,’ shall we say. Known accomplice of James Moriarty.”

“Yes, I know.”  
“Then I fail to see how he could be viewed as a valid source of information.”

John sighs. “You’re right. I know.” 

Mycroft is silent on the other end of the line. John wonders how rude it would be to just hang up. Finally, the voice returns, sounding forced and uncomfortable.

“John, I hope you understand that my concern for you is--”

John splutters. “God-- Mycroft. It’s okay, really. Don’t worry about it. I appreciate it.”

“Right. Well. Don’t hesitate to call if you . . . need anything.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you.”

Mycroft hangs up. John blinks and shakes his head as the feeling of awkwardness fades. He picks up the stranger’s phone. _Moran_ , he thinks. _What the hell do you want?_ He clicks through two photographs, a list of cities, a few lines of something that must be in code. The feeling grows. _Sherlock. Is. Alive._

He thinks for a moment, then finishes his drink and dials Harry. 

“H’lo?” 

“Harry. Hi. Um. Just thought I’d call and say I’ve met someone.”

He hears a thud as she drops something. “Met someone? Like, _met someone_ met someone?”

“I don’t-- No. Just, somebody interesting. When I went out, like you said.”

“So I was right.”

“You were right.”

“Are you going to-- God, John, are you going to see her again?”

“Um. Him, actually. And yeah, probably. I hope so. I expect so. Um. Have to go now, Harry,” he says loudly as she starts to speak. “I’ll call you later this week.” He hangs up before her farewell and waits, twirling the mobile between his fingers. It only takes a minute for it to start ringing again.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Watson,” Moran’s voice rasps down the line. “Very subtle.”

“Is that sarcastic?”

“Doesn’t matter. You want to talk?”

“Not over the phone.”

“All right. 27 Caversham Road. Upstairs.”

“What if I don’t trust you?”

John can hear the shrug in Moran’s silence. “Then come armed. Doesn’t matter. If you want tea you’ll have to bring it yourself.”

The line goes dead. John grabs his jacket, sticks a phone in each pocket, and pulls his Browning out of the false-bottomed desk drawer. The weight in his waistband is familiar, and as he locks the door behind him he has to consciously keep his focus forward. He does not look over his shoulder. There is no one there.


	4. Pax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The proposal takes shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day. Sorry about that.

Moran’s flat is smaller than John’s and full of cardboard boxes. The man himself opens the door and waves John inside, casual as you please. 

“Just moved in?” John asks, navigating his way around a teetering pile.

“What? Oh, that. No, that’s all Jim’s.” Moran pulls a folding chair over to a rickety card table, nodding John over to another in the corner. John shifts his gun from the waistband of his jeans to his jacket pocket. Moran raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

“Hang on, is that--” John notices the game board that covers the card table. “Cluedo? Seriously?”

He rises and examines the board. The board is standard, battered around the edges, and six of the “rooms” each have a character card stuck to them with a thumbtack. The center square--the one representing the crime scene--is covered by a large X, drawn in felt-tip. Next to the X is scrawled “16/6/12.”

Moran leans forward. “This is the Empire. What’s left of it.” He rises and pulls a switchblade out of the pocket of his jeans. John jerks backwards as he flicks it open, but Moran just looks at him mildly and uses the point of the blade to indicate portions of the board as he speaks.

“Jim’s phone had its own network, so it couldn’t be hacked from the outside. He put me on it, eventually. Don’t know if he meant to, actually.” He laughs. “Of course he _meant_ to. But I don’t know how much he expected me to figure out. There’s probably a whole world of information that’s gone for good now, stuff I wasn’t allowed to know. But I’ve got enough to go on. All in those.” He flicks the knife toward a stack of boxes.

“You’re not explaining,” John snaps, eyes never leaving the tip of Moran’s knife. It serpentines in the air for a moment, John watching the movement and Moran watching John. It falls to the board, tracing a path from “Library” to “Ballroom.”

“This,” Moran says, eyes returning to the board and tapping the “Ballroom” space. “Is England.” Tacked onto this part of the board is the card marked “Colonel Mustard.”

“That’s me,” Moran says, trailing the tip of the knife over the character’s throat.

“Colonel?” John says skeptically.

“He always called me Colonel. Sometimes Lieutenant. General.” John catches a tiny glimpse of a grin flit across the other man’s face. “Arsehole.” 

“So all these rooms, they’re--what? Countries?”

“Outposts. Yeah. Six of them, six main operatives. Managers, I guess. Shanghai, São Paulo, Prague, Mumbai, Jerusalem,” he recites, pointing in turn to the Lounge, Dining Room, Kitchen, Conservatory, and Billiard Room.”

“Why only six?” John asks. “Why fucking _Cluedo_?”

“You did meet him, didn’t you? You do know he was crazy?” John stares. 

“He thought it was funny,” Moran says, simply. “We six are the big ones, the people in charge. He had people everywhere, but they all answered to one of us. And we answered to him. I’ve started putting some of the pieces together, but all this stuff--” he taps the top of a cardboard box-- “is going to have to be sorted.”

“So you want me to be your secretary,” John says bluntly, surveying the stacks of boxes. 

Moran grins. “If you want. If you don’t like ‘colleague.’”

John flinches. “No. Just-- No.” He shuts his eyes for a moment before shaking himself. “How do you know there’s anything useful in here? What’s in them?”

Moran crosses to a shelf and pulls out a single sheet of paper. 

“The day he died he had all these sent over here. I wasn’t in; I was working. I’d just gotten rid of his body, just fucking seen him . . .” he trails off, pursing his lips and examining the paper. “Anyway. I get home and see this, stuck on top of one of the boxes.”

He holds it out to John. It’s a black and white computer printout, showing an old fashioned error message in a grey box. The top reads “Ctrl + Alt + Delete,” and underneath is a list of options: “Restart,” “Logoff,” “Sleep,” and “Shut Down.” The final phrase is circled in red pen, and beside it an almost childlike scrawl reading " _EVERYTHING. SO LONG. XX."_

“Jim?” John asks. Moran nods. “That’s quite a suicide note.”

“It wasn’t suicide, what he did. That’s not--”

“What the fuck else can you call it?” John feels something sour rise in the back of his throat as he watches the scowl deepen on Moran’s face. “Blowing your own brains out. Last resort of a desperate man--”

The fist that connects with his cheek is no surprise, though the relief he feels certainly is. In a split second his gun is out of his pocket, but Moran is too fast. The next thing John knows his left arm is pinned to the table, right twisted behind his back, Moran’s knife pressed lightly against the fragile skin of his left wrist. They hold there for a moment, gun pointed ineffectually at the wall, breathing audible in the still of the room. Moran slowly lifts the blade, leaving a thin impression in John’s skin. They both relax and straighten, regarding each other cautiously. Moran sets the knife on the table; John does the same with his gun. Suddenly, John can’t stop a giggle from rising in this throat. He hides his mouth behind his hand but the laugh spills between his fingers. The strangeness of it, to be laughing, to ever laugh again, makes him gasp. Moran stares at him, eyebrows raised in wary amusement.

“Mr. Moran,” John starts, trying to control his own voice. “How on earth do you expect this to work? You and I, together?”

Moran grins and John catches a tiny spark of life in the dark hollows of his eyes. “You could start by calling me Sebastian,” he says lightly, dropping down into the chair. John lowers himself into the other, unable to control his expression. 

“Where do we start?” he asks. 

“First,” Moran says. “We need to get rid of John Watson.” He rips the suicide note in half, turning it over and scribbling something on it. “Here. This address, tomorrow at five. I know someone who can help. Owes me a favor. Sort of. Bring your computer.”

John reluctantly accepts the paper turning it in his hands. _SO LONG. XX._

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep this?” 

Moran looks confused. “Why would I?”

John says nothing. He rises, picking up the gun. Moran tenses almost imperceptibly until John sticks it back into his pocket.

“Five o’clock?”

Moran nods. 

John nods back and turns to the door. 

“So long, John.” Moran’s voice is quiet, and when John looks over his shoulder he sees the man turning the torn paper between his fingers, thoughtfully. “So long.”


	5. Definitive Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is banished, Sebastian tells the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for triggers: child injury and child death

The house is completely nondescript, one of six identical white townhouses lining one side of the tiny street. When he knocks at five o’clock sharp, Sebastian appears next to him out of the early evening shadows. He opens the door without waiting for a response from within, wiping his shoes on the hall rug.

“You live here, too?” John asks. Sebastian shakes his head and gestures him inside.

In the sitting room--comfortably furnished, though by no means extravagant--sits a woman in sweatpants and a dark blue hijab, looking over a set of papers. She looks up as he enters and smiles brightly, rising and holding out a hand.

“John Watson, Naima Mahad,” Sebastian says as John shakes her hand. She turns to Sebastian and embraces him warmly. He returns the hug and plants a kiss on her cheek.

“How’s the kid?” he asks gruffly, and she sighs. 

“Getting by. As well as can be expected. He’ll be glad to see you. You’ve been away too long, Seb.” Sebastian shrugs. Naima waves them through the room to a narrow hallway. “He’s in his room.”

Sebastian knocks lightly on the door before pushing it open. A young boy in an oversized football jersey, about ten, looks up from his video game with a huge smile. 

“Sebastian!” he cries and reaches both arms down. Given the angle, John can’t see him clearly until he wheels himself into the center of the room. He tries to muffle a sucked-in breath of surprise as the blanket falls off the boy’s lap, revealing the stumps of two legs in pinned-up blue jeans. Sebastian holds out a hand and shakes the boy’s, solemnly.

“How’re you holding up, soldier?”

“I’m really good. Level six,” the boy announces proudly, jerking his thumb towards the television. 

“Excellent.” Sebastian ruffles his hair somewhat awkwardly, giving him a sideways grin. “Keep practicing; get those reflexes down.”

The boys nods seriously. “Who’s this?”

“This is John. He’s working with me.”

John nods to the boy, who looks at him in awe.

“Like Jim?”

“Sort of. We’ve got to talk to your ma, now. I’ll say goodbye before we leave.”

The boy’s face falls for a moment before settling back into a smile. “Okay.” He wheels himself back in front of the television, adjusting the blanket around his legs. Sebastian hesitates for a moment, then leads John out of the room.

“What was--?” John starts.

“Accident. Wrong place, wrong time.” Sebastian does not look at him.

“ _You?_ ” John gapes at him. 

Sebastian turns an raises and eyebrow. “You’re surprised? It wasn’t supposed to happen. Everything that could have gone wrong . . . Well. He’ll be alright.”

“Alright?” John halts, horrified. “Al _right_? How is a child with no _legs_ going to--?”

“Keep your fucking voice down,” Sebastian hisses, glaring at him. John falls silent and follows him into a back office, where Naima sits at a desk in front of two computer screens and a collection of printers and scanners. 

“Dr. Watson,” she says pleasantly. “Any preference of last name? I think we can keep ‘John.’”

“You’re making me a new identity?” 

“ID cards, passport, credit cards. The usual.”

“You can do all of that?”

She looks almost pityingly at him, and he gets a sudden flash of another face in the back of a mysteriously black car. He shakes himself before the memory continues.

“Not just that,” she says. “I’m getting John Watson out of the way. Making room for John . . .”

“Smith?” suggests Sebastian. Naima gives him a withering stare.

“What do you think is the ratio of people actually named John Smith to people pretending to be named John Smith? It’s the alias from Doctor Who for fuck’s sake.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Sebastian snaps. “You pick a name, then.”

“Flynn. John Flynn.”

John thinks for a moment. “I like it. Sounds like an action hero.”

Sebastian makes a face. “But do we really want ‘action hero’?”

“If you get to be Sebastian fucking Moran, I can be John Flynn.” Sebastian looks taken aback for a moment, then holds up his hands in surrender.

Naima hits a series of buttons with dizzying speed, setting off beeps and buzzes around the office. John speaks over the noise. 

“How did you get all of this?”

“I’m in the R and D department of a security company. The British Government is one of our biggest clients. Everything else is from Mr. Moriarty.”

“She’s not really a traitor,” Sebastian adds. “Jim got her on our side when he took her sister. Sister, right?”

Naima nods. “Every time he wanted something he’d snatch her out of school, hold her for a few days until the job was done. Proper bastard.”

“You know he’s dead, don’t you?” John asks carefully, darting a look at Sebastian.

“Of course,” Naima smiles up at Sebastian. “This is just a favor for a friend. Last job and then I’m done.”

“On my honor,” Sebastian says, and John is surprised to see his face is deadly serious.

“Okay, Mr. Flynn,” she says. “Let’s find a place for Dr. Watson. If you were to leave London, where would you go?”

John considers. “I wouldn’t leave London. I don’t know. Sussex?”

“Glasgow,” Sebastian says. “Send him to Glasgow.” 

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

Naima types for a minute in silence, flipping through screens faster than John can follow. Finally she clicks a few times and settles back. “Alright. There was an opening at a small clinic in Glasgow, which has just been filled by one John Watson.”

John looks between her and Sebastian, confused. “I’m going to Glasgow”

“ _You’re_ not. Your stuff is. As far as anyone can tell, you’ll be there. Random credit card purchases in the area, lease in your name, paychecks.”

John stares at her, flabbergasted. “You can _do_ that?”

“I can’t,” she admits with a smile. “But Aaron is the best hacker I know, and he can.”

“Aaron?”

“You met him, didn’t you?” She looks at Sebastian disapprovingly. “Didn’t you go in and say hello?”

“I did! I just didn’t introduce them.”

Naima shakes her head. “No manners. Aaron’s my son. He’ll have you set up by Friday.”  
John whistles softly. “Another favor for a friend?”

“He doesn’t get to do anything this complicated very often. And he likes Seb. He’ll have fun with it.”

John opens his mouth to respond, but can’t think of a single thing to say.

“You have your computer, yes?” Naima asks, clearing a space on the desk. John snaps to attention and pulls out his laptop, logging on and turning to her expectantly. “You’ll need to let your friends know that you’re moving. Here’s all the information about the job, your new address, all of it. Do it from your laptop, just in case someone tracks the email.”

“You want me to write it now?”

“Let them know that you’re leaving and that you don’t want them coming to visit. Can you do that?” Sebastian asks. “Can you think of a reason to keep them away?”

“Give me a minute?” he asks both of them.

“Of course. Seb, I’ve got water on for tea. You want a cup?” She pulls Sebastian out of the room, and John sits and opens a blank email. He thinks for a long moment, then begins to write.

  


_Dear Friends,_

_To begin with, I want to thank all of you for these past few months. They have been hard on all of us, I know, and without your support I don’t know what I would have done. I’m writing to let you know that I’ll be leaving for Glasgow this weekend, for good. I’ve accepted a job at the Barlanark Clinic, which begins on Monday._

_I’m sorry not to be saying a proper goodbye, but I can’t stay in London another week. London was and still is his city, and I can’t be here without him. Not anymore. Maybe I’ll be back one day, but for now I need to start over somewhere new._

_I hope you’ll all come to visit, but please wait until I’m settled. It will be a while before I can handle a familiar face. I promise to let you know when I feel well enough to have visitors. Until then, please don’t call or come up._

_I know I should be stronger than this. I’m sorry._

_All the best,_

_John Watson_

 

Sebastian comes back in the room as he finishes typing his name. “Finished?”

“Does this look believable?” John asks.

“Read it out,” Sebastian says. “See if it sounds natural.”

John reads it to him in monotone, steeling himself against the meaning of the words. When he reaches the end, he glances up to find Sebastian staring at him. His brow is furrowed and he almost looks like a student confronted with an unfamiliar equation.

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Sounds fine. Send it.”

John takes a breath and sends it off to Harry, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Ella, Mike, and Mycroft. When he’s finished he sits for a moment in silence, staring at the screen.

“That’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“This is it. I’m in. I’m doing it. My God, I haven’t taken a breath since this started.” He rubs his eyes. “It’s going to happen. We’re going to find him.”

“Yes, we are.”

“And then what?” He looks Sebastian straight in the eye, daring him to answer. Sebastian meets his gaze with a small half-smile. 

“Then we’ll see.”

Naima reenters the room holding a mug, flicking her eyes between the pair of them.

“Alright?”

John looks away from Sebastian, smiling at her. “All finished. When will I have my papers?”

“Thursday. I’ll have everything done by then. Come back around lunch time.”

John rises, shakes her hand again and makes for the front door. Sebastian stops in Aaron’s room on his way down the hall, so John waits for him outside, leaning against the rough concrete of the wall. When Sebastian emerges, John catches a glimpse of him in profile, head down and shoulders slumped. He pauses in the doorway, and John watches him transform--back straight, eyes blank and mouth in that one-sided twist. He turns and spots John in the shadows, gives him an ironic smile.

“It’s good to see old friends,” he says.

John shakes his head. “Your relationships are seriously fucked up. That’s all I can say.”

“Are you repulsed? Scared?” He doesn’t look offended or concerned, just curious.

“I don’t know. You’d think I’d have enough experience with sociopaths by now.”

“I’m not actually a sociopath,” Sebastian says, starting down the road. “But I am an opportunist, so I suppose that’s the same thing.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” John asks, following a few feet behind him. Sebastian shrugs.

“No idea. It’s what Jim used to say. I guess he’d know. I’m craving beef and broccoli with noodles. You hungry?”

John hesitates for a moment, biting his lip. “Yeah, sure. There’s a place a few blocks from here I know. We used to get takeaway all the time. Me and Sherlock.” He feels a pang in his chest at the memory, but reminds himself firmly: _Sherlock. Is Alive. He’s alive, he’s alive_. “We could take it back to yours, if you want. Start on some of those boxes.”

Sebastian slows his pace and falls even with John, hunching his shoulders and turning up his collar against the cold. “Lead on.”

 

To John’s surprise, the meal doesn’t pass in silence. The conversation is stilted and uncomfortable, but they manage to find some common ground: experiences in Afghanistan, some of Sherlock’s cases, the inconveniences of air travel. John is on Sebastian’s sofa, cartons of food spread out on the coffee table in front of him. Sebastian is in an armchair facing him, bent over his noodles with serious intent. Long silences punctuate the meal, though John can’t tell whether or not Sebastian finds them uncomfortable. When the conversation turns to Moriarty, John sits up.

“Shan? General Shan from the Blind Banker case?” John asks, impressed.

“Yeah, that was me. All of the bombs during Jim’s little game. That was a bitch, that one,” Sebastian laughs, taking a swig from his beer. “Fucking _hours_ at a time, doing nothing. And then there’s another one all the fucking way across town. Cab fare alone was ridiculous.”

“I never really thought about that,” John admits. “That was all you?”

“Fucking . . .” Sebastian trails off with an exasperated sigh. “I was flattered, I was. But how hard is it to point a rifle? Only had to shoot once. A fucking _child_ could do it. But no, it had to be me. He trusted me. Said I was like him.”

“And are you?” The question hangs in the air, sharp cornered and dangerous.

Sebastian considers, tapping the side of his paper carton in an uneven rhythm. “Not as much as he thought I was,” he says finally. “Not as much as he wanted me to be.” 

He falls silent for a long moment.

“How did you end up like this, then? Pulled the wings off too many flies, drowned the neighbors’ cats? Shot up your primary school, that kind of thing?”

Sebastian laughs. “Nothing so interesting. Really. I’m just a soldier. Just a soldier who got kicked out, liked taking orders. And shooting. Jim paid me to do what I’m good at.”

John looks at him pointedly, waiting. Sebastian sighs.

“I’m serious. I never even killed anyone until I was seventeen,” he says, picking out a piece of broccoli. “And that was a group thing. Nobody except me knew exactly which kick killed him.”

John takes a sip of his Coke. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Sebastian shrugged. “You asked where I started. That’s sort of where I started.” He stares into space for a second, then looks sharply at John.

“What?” John asks, unconsciously wiping his mouth. Sebastian looks back into his carton.

“The second one wasn’t me. Everyone thought it was, but . . . Not me.” He shrugs.

“The second person you killed, you mean?”

Sebastian nods.

“The second person you killed, you didn’t kill,” John says, smiling slightly. “Right. Who did?”

“Nobody. It was an accident.”

“Lucky for you. All the credit and none of the work.” John stretches his feet out on the coffee table, turning to his own fried rice. Sebastian huffs a small laugh. After a moment he speaks again, fork idly poking at his vegetables.

“It was crib death. SIDS. Whatever they call it.”

John freezes. “Oh. Who--?”

“My daughter.” Sebastian stares into his carton, face blank.

“How--?”

“Four months.”

John swallows. “And you were--”

“Eighteen. Everyone thought it was me. Not enough to, you know, bring me up on charges or anything. But everybody was sure it was me.” He starts to twirl a noodle around his fork, around and around and around. “Her mother said I’d gotten annoyed. Shaken her or something. I never did, though.”

John nods, watching him carefully.

“She’d get annoyed. Anne, the mother. With the crying, you know, and the not sleeping and the diapers and everything. I never did.”

“No?” John asks softly. Sebastian smiles slightly.

“Seemed to me every time she cried she had a perfectly good reason. I’d be pissed off too if I couldn’t even talk for myself.”

“What was her name?” Sebastian is quiet for a long moment, lips pursed.

“Maria,” he says finally, lifting the fork to his mouth at last.

“Maria Moran,” John says thoughtfully. 

“Sounds kind of stupid, I guess,” Sebastian says, swallowing.

“Nah.” John smiles at him and tries not to make it look like pity. “Is that why--?”

“That’s not why anything,” Sebastian says sharply.

“Right.” 

“None of this is on her.”

John resists the urge to reach out a hand. “Of course not. I didn’t mean that.” Sebastian nods once.

“Joined the Army right after. Might as well.”

There is a long silence. John takes another bite before asking, “Moriarty knew?”

Sebastian barks a laugh. “Of course he knew. Thought it was hilarious. Kept cracking jokes about it. ‘You know, Seb,’” he says, affecting Moriarty’s voice. “‘You and Adler. You’d make beautiful children. Temporarily, of course.’” Sebastian sighs fondly.

“And you love him?” John feels somewhat sick to his stomach, so he puts down his own carton.

“Never said that,” Sebastian says quietly.

“But he--”

“It’s better than _that_ ,” Sebastian cuts him off, gesturing at John’s expression. “Anything’s better than pity.”

John looks down at his hands. “Right.”

“What did you think?” Sebastian asks. “That he was different with us? With me? Under all that Westwood and semtex he was a generous, lovely man? Good with children and animals?”

“No, but I thought--”  
“He was terrible. He was worse than you know. He’s got his own fucking . . . suburb in hell. But he was mine.” Sebastian runs a hand through his hair and rises, kicking the coffee table out from under John’s feet. John watches him silently, but Sebastian won’t meet his eyes. “Fuck off,” he spits. 

He grabs a pack of cigarettes from the shelf by the door and goes out into the night, pulling his jacket closed with one hand. John sighs as the door closes, leaning his head back on the sofa and watching the ceiling, wondering where Sebastian keeps his liquor.


	6. Mrs. White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress is made and a strange status quo is both formed and shaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all this is without beta, editing, brit-pick, or anything. I will go back eventually and edit each chapter.  
> The thing about this style of posting WIP is that it perpetuates the ridiculous myth that writers write things in chronological order. We do not. So sorry for any inconsistencies.  
> All love to everyone who has been so supportive and wonderful, even though seiji's threats of violence get more graphic by the day.

John moves into the unfinished room across from Sebastian’s flat. The floor is bare concrete and the studs of the wall are exposed. Sebastian has been using it for storage and as a sort of gym. Two different-sized punching bags hang from the ceiling, and one corner holds a few free weights and a steel rod connecting two walls for chin-ups. Sebastian sets up an air mattress along the inside wall, an empty crate serving as a night stand with an old reading lamp. The room has no outlets, so they stretch a long orange extension cord out the door and down the hall to plug it in. It’s the only electric light in the room, so John spends hours in the near dark working himself to exhaustion.

His toothbrush joins Sebastian’s on the edge of the sink. Sebastian starts buying semi-skimmed milk instead of whole fat. It takes him two weeks to set the table for two on the first try. Every night he grabs one plate and one fork, catches himself, and goes back for the others. John doesn’t say anything.

They fall into a routine. John can’t leave the house, so he stays in and sorts Moriarty’s boxes of artifacts. Sebastian goes out during the day, following whatever leads they manage to dig up, collecting favors from old friends. In the evenings he joins John on the boxes. 

There seems to be little rhyme or reason to the contents, but connections start to form. Books, notepads, receipts, laptops, scraps of paper, bits of clothing, play scripts, dead mobile phones, data chips, credit cards. 

Three nights after John moves in, they are in the living room, going through a stack of file folders. John has started a spreadsheet on his computer to record their discoveries. Sebastian has been doing most of the lifting and sorting, and has demonstrated an unexpected talent for breaking into password-protected electronics.

“Grab that top file, would you?” John asks, opening a new page. “Just give me the basics, so I can see where it fits.”

Sebastian picks up the file reluctantly. “I think it would be faster if you just--”  
“Read it off, Sebastian. Help me out here.”

Sebastian is quiet for a long moment, looking down at the page. John looks up and sees his face turn an almost inhuman shade of red. His jaw is clenched and his fingers crease the corners of the folder. 

“What is it?” Sebastian doesn’t answer for a moment. His lips part briefly, then press together and his shoulders tighten. It takes John a shocked moment to identify the expression. Shame.

“You can--” John chooses his words carefully before asking. “You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course I can fucking read,” Sebastian spits, teeth bared. “Just not fast--” his words spill over each other-- “I don’t read that fast but I’m not a fucking-- Just because I don’t have a medical degree; I’m not a--”

“No, no, it’s alright. It’s fine.” John slips the folder out of Sebastian’s hands, stunned into politeness. Sebastian stands and starts moving boxes into stacks, seemingly at random. John cannot think of a single thing to say, so he opens the folder.

John is learning about Moriarty at about the same pace he is learning about Sebastian. The collection of _stuff_ in the boxes is jumbled and mismatched, but every so often they come across a completely coherent piece of information--an address, a list of aliases, a stolen diary. The image forming in John’s mind is even more terrifying than the Moriarty he met--fickle, barely coherent, operating on a system of logic that John cannot begin to understand. 

“Lopes,” John reads. “We’ve seen a ‘Lopes’ before, haven’t we?”

“Fausto Lopes. A whole bunch of receipts in his name from London, Paris, and Mexico City. And a few photos.” Sebastian keeps moving boxes around, moving stacks of papers into neat piles.

“You remember all that?”

Sebastian raises his eyebrows. “There’s different types of smart, Doc.”

“This has his name as Tadeus. Could be the same guy.”

“Or a relative, accomplice, something. Any address? I guess that’s a lot to ask.”

“There’s an address listed here, and place of employment. Looks like a restaurant. São Paulo.”

Sebastian crosses to the card table, where the battered old Cluedo board has been collecting scrawled pieces of data around each of the rooms. 

“São Paulo is the Dining Room, Dining Room is . . . Green. Reverend Green. Lopes?”

John rises and looks at the board from the other side. 

“Could be. A whole file, though? Don’t you think that’s too easy?”

Sebastian grins. “Jim is on our side, remember. Try not to be so surprised when he’s helpful. I know he’s insane, but he does actually know what he’s doing.”

John clamps his mouth shut _._ Then he catches Sebastian’s eye. The taller man is staring at him, challenging--daring him to say something. John takes a deliberate breath through his nose and says, calmly and evenly, “Present tense? How sentimental.”

Sebastian huffs out what could be either a laugh or a growl and punches him right underneath his eye. John is not completely surprised, so staggers but manages to stay on his feet. When he straightens, Sebastian’s shoulders are set, shadow of a grin in place. 

“Next door,” John says, and strides out the door and down the hall to his dark bedroom. He clicks on the reading light just in time to see Sebastian take another swing at him, arm curving into the light. John ducks and catches him around the middle, tackling him to the concrete and smashing his forehead into Sebastian’s nose.

It becomes a ritual, a few nights a week. The Cluedo board fills up with bits of information, John’s spreadsheet gets more connections than question marks, and their bruises never really get time to heal. It can happen anytime, though they normally wait until late in the evening, after dinner when there’s nothing on TV and going through boxes seems impossible. One will rise and say “Next door.” The other will sometimes follow on his heels, tension and frustration seething under the surface of his skin, not waiting for the door to close before pouncing. Other days, he will sit for ten minutes, maybe twenty, letting the weight of the last day, week, year build up in his bones until he rises and makes his way down the hall, a slow and angry kind of joy coming into his veins. After those days, Sebastian usually buys more plasters and John makes ice.

John spends the day fighting. That’s what he calls it, silently. Fighting himself with free weights, fighting demons and thoughts and doubts with pushups and punching bags, fighting Moriarty with his computer and his growing collection of notes. Somedays fighting Sherlock. When Sebastian comes home he finds it almost peaceful. 

With Sherlock, words could sometimes be a minefield. The smallest thing could set off a two-hour monologue about his mother’s parenting skills and his obvious lack of attention in history class. Sometimes a laugh at the wrong moment made Sherlock silent and sullen for days on end, near catatonic on the sofa or playing repetitive, maddening arpeggios on the violin.

Living with Sebastian, John finds himself saying exactly what’s on his mind. It takes a few weeks, but he soon learns that the worst response he can prompt is a punch in the gut, and he doesn’t really mind that. The odd smile that appears on Sebastian’s face whenever John pushes him--verbally or physically--is one of the most fascinating things John has ever seen.

Sebastian starts calling him by his alias. 

“Johnny Flynn!” he calls, banging open the front door and dragging an unconscious man across the floor. “I could use a hand.”

John comes out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, and blinks at him for a moment.

“Who’s this?”

“Heavy. You want me to leave him on the floor? I’ll leave him on the floor.”

“No, fine. Here, just let me--”

They get the man onto the sofa and Sebastian neatly duct tapes his hands together. John sits back on his heels, adjusting the waist of his pajama pants and crossing his arms over his bare chest.

“Who is this, now?”

Sebastian grins at him. “Mrs. White,” he says simply.

John stares at him. “This is Mrs. White. _This_ is Mrs. White?”

“Mrs. White, in the Kitchen. Dominik Sidlov. We did a job together a few years ago.”

“You know, I’ve heard of cats dragging mice home for praise, but this is above and beyond.”

“Shut up.”

The man begins to rouse, mumbling something in Czech.

“Hey, Sidlov. Remember me? Moran. Your pal Moran. From the Kiev job, remember?”

Sidlov jerks back as his vision clears, pushing himself into the cushions of the couch.

“What do you want? Mr. Moriarty, he was always very pleased. Very pleased; we do good work.”

“Yeah, good work in the kitchen, Mr. Sidlov.”

“Does this ‘good work’ include anything to do with Sherlock Holmes?” John asks, claiming the man’s attention. Sidlov isn’t frightened yet, just nervous.

“It is possible,” he says carefully. Sebastian sighs.

“Sidlov. We’re not going to make any deals with you. Do we look like patient men?” He gestures between John’s face and his own. “We are not patient men. Have you found Sherlock Holmes?”

Sidlov shakes his head. “I don’t know anything. I know what he told me--what Moriarty told me. No more. Holmes is dead.”

“Except, no, he isn’t,” John says. “Are we going to have to hurt you? ‘Cause I just took a shower.”

Sebastian’s glances at him with barely concealed surprise. “Mr. Sidlov, my associate is a man of action. If you waste his time, things will not turn out so well for you.”

“Who are you?” Sidlov spits. “Who is your _associate,_ Mr. Moran?”

“Johnny Flynn. You mean you haven’t heard of him?” Sebastian looks at John with mock pity. “Well, you will soon enough. You all will. Stay there, would you?”

He rises and grabs a pistol from a desk drawer. 

“Not here,” John says, rising as well. “If he ends up bleeding it’ll get on the couch. Take him next door.”

They bundle Sidlov to his feet and drag him down the hall, protesting weakly.

“How’d a miserable fuck like you get put in charge, anyway?” Sebastian asks pleasantly. “You somebody’s cousin or something?”

“Please, Mr. Moriarty, he was always very pleased. Very happy with the work.”

“Yeah, yeah, but Mr. Moriarty’s dead.”

Sebastian pushes him to his knees. “Holmes. Where is he?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Sidlov sputters at Sebastian’s pistol presses into the side of his skull.

“Seb, wait a second.” John kneels down in front of Sidlov. “Look, we just want to find him. You haven’t been active since Moriarty died, so why would we want to hurt you? We just want information. You see? Just some information and we’ll let you go.”

“You promise?” The man’s eyes bore holes into John’s, desperate.

“Sure. You give us what we need, we let you go.”

Sidlov swallows loudly. “You did not hear it from me,” he mumbles. “But there was talk-- Divekar is missing, maybe dead.”

John glances at Sebastian, who nods.

“And you think Holmes did it?” John asks. 

“Could be. That’s one theory. That’s all I know, I swear. No one is supposed to know, her second is running things now. That’s it, that’s everything.”

John rises. “Alright. That’s fine; that’s good. Seb, let him go.”

Sebastian doesn’t lower the gun. “Except that’s _not_ everything, is it, Sidlov?”

“It is, I swear! I swear!”

Sebastian looks pointedly at John and pulls back the hammer. “No, because there’s the drugs and everyone who ran them. That’s--how many people was that? How many died just last year? I knew of five, but there must have been more. And then all those abductions. Not all of those were for Jim, were they? No, you were freelancing. Yeah, I heard about that. And the girls. How could I forget the girls? Shipped off to the States, here to Britain. That wasn’t part of the deal, see? You can’t just branch out on your own. There was a contract, Sidlov.”

“Please, please, I’m sorry. I’ve stopped, I promise.”

“No more girls?”

“No more girls. Please, I swear.”

Sebastian seems to consider for a moment. “I’m not a moral man, Mr. Sidlov. But even I have my limits. I found one of your packages, you see. A few months ago. That’s how I found out about them. About you. They were small, but even so, that truck wasn’t big enough to hold all of them. The youngest I saw was thirteen, Mr. Sidlov. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

He looks pointedly at John, whose lips have tightened to a colorless line. 

“Wait,” he says. Sebastian closes his eyes for a moment and lets the gun fall.

“Get on the other side,” John says.

“What?”

“The other side. Do it from the other side. My bed’s over here. Do it the other way.” He takes Sebastian by the arm and repositions him.

“Okay?” Sebastian asks. John nods.

Sebastian pulls the trigger and Sidlov falls with a dull thump. John looks at the body for a moment, then turns on his heel and leaves the room.

“You’re cleaning it up,” he calls over his shoulder. “I just got out of the shower. He can’t see Sebastian’s face, but as the door shuts he hears a low chuckle and a quiet “Johnny fucking Flynn.”

Later that night, when everything is cleaned up but a small spray of red on the wall, John gets Sebastian with a side-kick to the stomach. He doesn’t say “Next door,” doesn’t give a second’s warning. Sebastian is crossing the room with a bottle of beer and John just knocks him down. This fight is brutal, more so than usual. Sebastian cracks John’s head against the coffee table, and John flips him over the back of the couch so he lands with his neck at a dangerous angle. John finally gets him on his knees, his right arm twisted behind is back and yanked up so the shoulder and elbow joints almost creak with the stretch.

“Okay,” Sebastian spits. “Okay, okay, enough. Enough.”

John stops pulling, but holds him still for a silent moment. Sebastian pants.

“Enough. I need that arm.” 

“Look at me,” John says, and eases his arm down a bit. Sebastian manages to tip his head back far enough to see John’s face, calm and serious. He’s flushed and grinning, hair a mess, mouth gaping, and eyes brighter than John has ever seen them. No where in his face can  John find the corpse that cornered him in a alley months ago, or that sat on a park bench talking about impossible things. He looks young. “How do you feel?” John asks, voice unexpectedly hoarse. “Right now, how do you feel?”

Sebastian grins open-mouthed up at him. “Fucking _deadly_ ,” he whispers. John lets him go and steps back, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. Sebastian keeps his eyes on John as he turns and rises, serpent-like. They stare at each other for a long minute, gasping, until Sebastian’s smile grows hungry and he takes a step forward. John jerks back into the sofa and Sebastian halts.

“You’re a dangerous man, John Watson,” Sebastian murmurs, and it takes John a second to recognize his own name. He pushes off the sofa and out the door, letting it slam shut behind him.

In his own room, gunpowder smell still in the air he collapses against the exposed wood of the wall, sucking in huge gulps of air and shoving down his pajama pants. In a minute his head slams back against the wall as he comes, panting to the rhythm of someone else’s breath with the taste of _dangerous_ lingering on his tongue. 


	7. Mrs. Peacock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mumbai. Depends on your definition of "successful."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remind all of you magnificent readers that none of this had any editors or is seen by any eyes but mine in the writing process. This is a weakness. But. Thank you for reading anyway. You are the only reason this is still happening.

**February**

As far as John is concerned, Mumbai is going to be a waste of time. Sherlock has certainly been and gone, and they have no leads to his current location. It's another corner of the web to shut down, though, so they go anyway. Mumbai is the “Conservatory” on Moriarty’s board, and if Sidlov is to be believed, “Mrs. Peacock” is out of the picture. Sebastian wants confirmation, and claims to know “some cunt from Soho” who is most likely taking over her operation . John has to admit that it’s nice to leave the house, and to his relief no one looks twice at his faked passport or ID. 

“It’s a lucky thing you’re white, Mr. Flynn,” Sebastian whispers in his ear as they breeze through security. “It takes a lot for a white guy to raise questions.”

John looks uncomfortable for a moment and hefts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Yeah,” he mutters.

“I’m serious. Getting Mburu through here was a fucking nightmare,” Sebastian laughs, gesturing at the guards. “And you’re even respectable. Hell, you make _me_ look respectable.”

“What do you mean?”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “I usually get at least a patdown. I look poor, see? You can't trust poor. Look at me.” John does, the set of his shoulders, the serrated angles of his face. “Not the sort you’d like to meet in a dark alley.”

“Is this the point where I say, ‘No, Sebastian, you look fine’?” John deadpans. Sebastian wrinkles his nose.

“You’ve been spending too much time around women and the socially disabled.”

John snorts. “I’ve been spending too much time around you. Hang on. Hang on, I _did_ meet you in a dark alley.”

“And you didn’t like it, did you?” John rolls his eyes. 

“I’m just saying,” Sebastian continues. ‘You’re not going to look suspicious unless you keep _acting_ suspicious. Slow down. Calm down. Naima’s good; you won’t get caught. And you’ll like Mumbai.”

He doesn’t, really. There’s too much _humanity_ ; he feels disconnected from all of it. He feels like a ghost, skirting around the edges of the living world, a vague threat, barely perceptible. He tells Sebastian, and Sebastian sighs and offers to buy him a drink. 

 They find Divekar in the back room of corrugated-iron shack. She’s mostly decomposed and the room is suffocating with the stench, but according to their guide it’s definitely her. 

“I keep the dogs away,” the little girl says proudly, brushing dirt off her ragged blue dress. “So Auntie won’t be bothered by them.” 

John and Seb trade glances over her head as she grins at the skeleton. 

“This woman was your auntie?” John asks gently. The girl turns to him with a bright laugh.

“Everyone called her Auntie! She knew everyone. She travelled everywhere in the world! And she brought me chocolate from every place she went.”

“Thank you for showing us, Divya,” John pats her shoulder. “I’m sorry about your auntie.”

“Oh, I’m not sad,” the girl laughs. “Auntie killed my father when I was very small. I do not want to work for her anymore. I work for Uncle, now.” She dips an uneven little curtsey and runs out the door before John can say another word.

They stand for a moment, John gaping after her and Sebastian with his hands in his pockets, lips pursed, surveying the body.

“Is everyone you know insane?” John asks.  “Just so I-- Just so I know to be ready.”

Sebastian pulls his attention off the body to look at him. “What? Divya? She’s a good kid. I knew her dad.” He turns back to the body and squats down, poking at the remains of a foot with his finger.

John approaches and takes a pen out of his pocket to lift the tattered fabric around the chest cavity.

“What do you say, Doctor?” Sebastian asks.

“Hmm?”

“Time of death, who killed her, you know.”

John stares at him. “I’m a doctor. I’m not a pathologist. Or a forensic . . . anything. A few days, obviously. I'm not an expert.” He gestures down at the body. “This . . . not really my area.” 

Sebastian sighs. “It’s probably Holmes, though, right? What’s his usual M.O.?”

“He doesn’t have an ‘M.O.’. He doesn’t kill people. He turns them over to the police.”

“You think the police did this?”

“No. I don’t know. If Sherlock’s on his own, if he’s still--”

“Playing dead?”

“Yeah. Then I suppose he’d take care of it on his own. If he’d just have left something, some kind of sign . . .”

Sebastian is quiet for a moment, before rising.

“Well, Mrs. Peacock’s dead and gone. Clear up her second and we can be out of here tomorrow.” 

John follows him out of the dimness of the shack, blinking in the sudden light. “Do you think he knows we’re looking for him? Sherlock, I mean. He’s not leaving any signs, any trail, but do you think he knows and he’s just . . . running?”

Sebastian thinks for a moment, then says quietly, “I hope not. For your sake. I hope he doesn’t. Come on, we’ve got to be armed if we’re cleaning up tonight. I know a guy."

"You 'know a guy' everywhere, don't you?"

Sebastian shrugs. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?"

The plane tickets and hotel are paid for with the extravagant inheritance that appeared in Sebastian’s checking account a week after Jim’s death, but the gun is paid for in cash, which Sebastian resents. 

“It’s not like we’re taking it with us! Fucking waste of money. Buying just so we can get rid of it in twelve hours.”

“Sebastian, I have a feeling these gentlemen don’t rent,” John mutters out of the corner of his mouth, smiling politely at the large scar-faced man who is impatiently waiting for Sebastian’s fistful of cash. Sebastian grumbles, but hands it over, muttering a few words in mixed Hindi and English. The man counts the money carefully, glaring at Sebastian, then hands him the handgun and a slip of paper. Sebastian passes the gun to John, who grins as he feels the familiar weight of the Browning in his palm.

It's early evening when they leave the man's shop, the heat of the day beginning to fade and the scent of food and cooling sweat blending around them as they pass open doorways.

"Nearly dinner," John says, navigating his way through the crowd between two food stalls as the rival salesmen try to out-shout each other. In a odd way, the weight of the gun tucked into his waistband makes the noise and the color much more manageable. 

"We're going South," Sebastian says, catching up to him. Guy we're looking for has a house down in the tourist district."

"You know him?" John shouts in his ear as a large woman with a massive shopping bag pushes between them.

Sebastian holds up the slip of paper. "Address. If 'Uncle' is who I think he is, then yeah, I know him. Guy's a prick. Fucking ' _Uncle_.' Seriously."

"And the gun?"

They're shoved together by the press of people gathered around a shop window. Sebastian mumurs in his ear, "I don't know about you, but I like to use mine for shooting people. Come on, flag down one of those rickshaw things. I don't fancy walking it."

Sebastian is right. The guy is a prick.

“Way I see it, Seb,” he says around a mouthful of chicken. “Divekar just wasn’t cut out to lead this kind of operation.”

Sebastian nods in understanding, picking at his own food. John looks between the two of them, not sure how to act. Nicky Gupta--the prick--had been waiting outside his front door when they arrived that evening. Apparently “Uncle” pays better than a pair of strangers. 

“Seb! Seb Moran! Never thought I’d see you again, right? Come on, dinner. I’m buying.” And they'd followed him here.

John’s not sure if this is the dinner before an inevitable showdown or a catch-up between old friends. Sebastian is walking the line quite carefully, laughing at Gupta’s jokes but occasionally shooting John glances that say “stay alert.” John waits.

“I mean, first of all she’s a woman. Right? Not just a woman, though. One of these nightmare-every-twenty-eight-days bitches, right?”

John starts to twitch every time Gupta says “right.” Something about the man’s voice makes him long for the crunch of gunmetal on skull.

“And-- Okay, so I’m not racist. Of course, I mean look at me, I’m not racist. But there’s something about a good British education that just prepares you to be a leader. Right? So these people are just at a disadvantage. Frankly, I think business is going to pick up now that someone with a head for this kind of work is in charge.”

Sebastian nods thoughtfully. Gupta doesn’t seem to notice, and continues talking.

“To be honest, I was surprised Moriarty never put me in charge over here. I mean, we both went to UCL. You know that? But who ever knew what was going on in his head, right? Except you, of course. I guess sucking his cock gave you an in here and there, right?”

Sebastian forces a laugh and pushes is plate away. “Nice place you got there, Nicky,” he says. “ Nice house. Mind giving us a tour?”

Gupta looks uncertain. “A tour of my house?”

Sebastian smiles mildly. “Yeah. Johnny and me don’t get to travel much. We’d like to see some nice architecture.”

John gives him a pleasant smile and nods in agreement.

Gupta looking searchingly at Sebastian, confident smile faltering. Whatever game he'd been playing doesn't include bringing them back to the house. “I-- Okay. Yeah, of course. You’ve got to see the city, right? Yeah. Okay. How about I show you around the neighborhood, then we can--”

“Nah, let’s go to yours. We’re flying out tomorrow and Johnny needs his rest, don’t you Johnny?”

“Eight solid hours or I’m useless,” John says pleasantly.

Gupta rises awkwardly, pasting on a confident smile as he pulls out a gold credit card to pay for their meal. John thanks him and Sebastian smiles warmly. It’s a work of art, that smile, all friendliness on the surface with a void beneath. It sends a shiver down John’s spine, but he’s not sure whether it’s fear or admiration. 

The house is nice, John has to admit. All white plaster and high ceilings, furnishings that each cost a month of Sebastian’s rent. 

John doesn’t have long to admire it, though, as fifteen seconds after he comes in the door he’s confronted with a machete in his face. “Fucking _machete?”_ he blurts as he topples back into Sebastian, avoiding the main force of the blow. Gupta catches him just above his hairline with the flat of the blade. It isn’t particularly sharp, but the force behind the blow splits his skin and sends his head spinning. Sebastian braces him with one large hand curling around his waist, the other scrabbling under the back of his shirt. In the brief second before the world rights itself, John thinks, ridiculously, _This is hardly the time or place, Seb._ Then Sebastian pulls the handgun from the waistband of John’s trousers and in one fluid motion shoots Gupta right between the eyes. The whole incident takes about five seconds, after which is forced to shut his eyes against a stream of blood and stagger upright.  When he opens his eyes and finds his balance again, Sebastian is holding a delicately patterned silk scarf to his head, the edge of it just trailing into John’s vision. He grabs it and holds it still until the pattern comes into focus. Tiny green leaves and red flowers on a creamy white background.

“Is this yours?” he asks stupidly.

“Yeah, Johnny. I always carry a silk scarf around just in case my partner gets a machete to the head.”

“Huh?”

“I found it on the fucking coatrack.”

“Oh. Okay.” John starts to giggle. “Fuck, that fucking hurts.”

“Yeah, I expect so. Try not to walk into any more swords, okay?” 

John giggles harder, placing his hand over Sebastian’s on his own head. Sebastian presses for a moment, then slips his hand out.

“Got it?” he asks. John nods, still smiling somewhat absently.  Sebastian steps away and leans over Gupta’s body. “Well. That’s that, I guess.”

“You know,” John muses, leaning against a very expensive-looking end-table. “If this were a novel we’d have at least had a fight scene.”

“What?” Sebastian looks up at him, brow wrinkled.

“If this,” John waves his hand aimlessly around him. “Were a proper novel. Like, a proper novel with characters and things. It wouldn’t be so easy. We’d have had a fight and then it would turn out to be Gupta’s evil twin or something. This is just too . . . clean.”

“Clean,” Sebastian says flatly. “You should see your fucking shirt. Here, take it off, that scarf's too small."

"What?"

Sebastian steps forward and unbuttons John's shirt as John stares dumbly at his fingers. He shoves it off John's shoulders and folds it quickly, pressing it against the wound. "Keep pressure on that.”

John obeys, still confused. “I know you don’t like to read," he continues. "That’s why I’m telling you. If you read books, you’d know this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

Sebastian drops his hand from the shirt and grasps his shoulder, something between amusement and affection in his eyes. “Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t. If this were a book you’d be dead, wouldn’t you?”

John thinks seriously for a moment, looking at Gupta’s feet, twisted up on the floor. “I think-- Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right. You’re the hero. I’m the one that dies, and you're sad about it, but the story goes on. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

There must be something strange in John’s expression, because Sebastian narrows his eyes and doesn’t release him. “Let’s get back to the hotel, okay? We’ll get a ride; it won’t be far. Keep pressure.”

John nods agreeably and follows him out of the house.

“He was a prick,” he says cheerfully, grabbing Sebastian’s arm. Sebastian waves down a rickshaw, flashing him a smile.

“Yeah, he was. Come on, get in. Don’t move too much.”

Arriving at the hotel and climbing the stairs is all a bit of a blur. Sebastian mumbles something about heatstroke and rickshaws at the desk clerk as they stumble past, which John wants to correct for medical accuracy. The next thing he knows, Sebastian has him sitting in just his pants on the floor of the bathtub, and is wiping at his wound with a wet towel.

“I’m gonna have to cut your hair, just so you know. Around this part here. I have to stitch it.”

“I can do stitches,” John says leaning away from Sebastian. He’s perpendicular to the other man, his back to the faucet, and in leaning away ends up pressed against the grimy tile of the wall.

“Not on yourself you can’t,” Sebastian counters as he pulls John back by base of his neck. “Sit still.”

They sit in silence as Sebastian fetches his well-stocked med kit, locates his scissors, and gently snips away the hair a few centimeters around the cut. He pulls out surgical thread, unwinding a length and taking a sanitary needle out of a package.

“Good thing we brought it,” John comments quietly, unwilling to disturb the stillness of the room.

“Yeah,” Sebastian answers, threading the needle. “This is going to sting.”

“I know it-- Christ!” John kicks his feet to keep from flinching as Sebastian rubs and alcohol pad across the cut and jabs in with the needle. He works quickly, which John appreciates, but the lack of any anesthetic or numbing agent is definitely taking its toll. John’s eyes water and he digs the toes of his boots into the side of the tub. He suddenly realizes that Sebastian is humming softly as he works, no melody that John recognizes but a soft, lilting thing. John squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on it, turning the timbre of Sebastian’s hum into violin strings and a rumbling baritone. He almost doesn’t notice when the stitching is finished.

“Christ,” he repeats without anger.

Sebastian chuckles. “You shouldn’t make him your example, you know.” He speaks softly, almost singsong, like he’s speaking to a child. John finds that he doesn’t really mind.

“Who?”

“Christ. Jesus Christ. Thirty-three years old and he loses his job, has to go home and live with his folks. Fucking shameful, that.”

“What?”

“I went to church. I know the story. ‘Hey dad, sorry I couldn’t get the people to listen. Mind if I crash here for a while? The little fuckers threw me out.’”

John turns his head slightly to peer through the matted fringe of his hair.

“Just how many ways are you trying to get into hell?”

Sebastian grins at him. “How many are there?” He holds John’s eyes for a long moment, during which John loses the ability to breathe, to think, to bleed.

“Stay there,” Sebastian murmurs, rising from his perch on the edge of the tub. John does, missing the melody as the soft echo of footsteps bounces off the tile and fades from the room. Sebastian returns with a glass tumbler and begins to run the bath water until it warms. He pushes John’s head forward and slowly pours a tumblerful through his hair.

“What are you doing?” John asks.

“You’re a fucking mess. Shut up and sit still.”

“I can wash myself, you know.”

“Shut up and sit still,” Sebastian repeats, squeezing firmly at the back of his neck. A few glasses later John’s head is warm and comfortably soaked, skull hanging loose on his neck. Sebastian squeezes shampoo out onto his hand from the tiny bottle by the sink. He works it softly into the back of John’s hair, moving up the curve of his skull in slow circles. John hisses as the soap runs over his wounds, but the pain is countered by the massage of fingers kneading at his scalp. The humming starts up again, though John isn’t sure if it’s Sebastian or just his own brain repeating. The strong fingers push and pull at his head, moving him into position and working the lather through his hair. John starts to drift, the warm water which runs periodically down his neck and the methodical, deliberate working of fingers easing him into a kind of doze. When he opens he eyes at last, he realizes that his temple is resting on Sebastian’s knee, bloody, soapy water soaking into the fabric of his jeans. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, his fingers still moving aimlessly over John’s scalp. John feels both half-asleep and completely alert, relaxed into a near-coma but aware of his position on the very edge of . . . something. He imagines, just for a moment, turning his face a few degrees to the left and rubbing his cheek along the worn fabric over Sebastian’s knee. He’s not sure if he _wants_ to do it, he’s just very aware of the fact that he _can_. 

“Was Gupta right?” he asks, out of nowhere.

“Hm?”

“Gupta said you sucked his cock. It was rude of him to say it like that. But you were his . . . I mean, were you?”

“Was I what?” Sebastian asks carefully, and John can feel his tension through the muscles in his leg and the stilling of his hands.

“Were you fucking Jim? Was that your arrangement? I’m not accusing him of nepotism; you’re very good at what you do.”

“Nepot--. . .” Sebastian trails off with an incredulous laugh. His fingers start moving again and John relaxes. “No,” Sebastian says finally. “I never fucked him. I never touched him. I wanted-- Yeah, I did want to. I intended to. But. Getting started. You know? Getting started is the hard part.”

John huffs and presses his head into the knee. “I know. I know, that’s the stupid thing. I never--”

“Really?” Sebastian turns John’s head, looking him in the eye. “You and Holmes weren’t--.”

John rolls his head in Sebastian’s hands. “I _intended_ , I think. I don’t know.”

Sebastian smiles at him. “If this were a book, what would happen now?”

John’s reply sticks in his throat, and he shivers. “I don’t know,” he whispers, unable to say anything else. Sebastian nods once and releases his head, filling another glass of water and pouring it through John’s hair.

“Feel clean?”

“Mmm. Yeah.” 

Sebastian rises so abruptly that John’s head nearly cracks against the edge of the tub. 

“I’m going for a walk. Don’t wait up.” He turns on his heel and leaves the room. A few seconds later John hears the hotel room door slam shut. He sits for a long minute, mouth opened in what could either be “Wait” or “Okay,” before he rises and wraps himself in a towel. 

He falls asleep long before Sebastian gets in, wrapped in scratchy blankets and thinking, over and over:  _Sherlock was here. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was_ here.


	8. King James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clue may be a clue. Slight interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of the story, the Fall took place around 3:45-4:00 in the afternoon. In this universe, what I say goes.

As they exit the departure gate in Heathrow fifteen hours later, an old man trips and shoves Sebastian against the wall. He apologizes profusely in heavily-accented English before walking briskly down the concourse. John tenses, ready to follow, but Sebastian touches his arm and shakes his head sharply. He turns and strolls nonchalantly towards baggage claim, hands in his pockets. John has no choice but to follow.

On the train, Sebastian passes him a slip of paper.

“The old man?” John mutters.

Sebastian nods and raises an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“It’s from a newspaper by the looks of it, ripped off the corner of a page. I can’t tell you which one. Sherlock could, but-- Handwriting looks male, thin pencil, probably mechanical. Standard weight. Right-handed. Not very neat, but more from speed than from unfamiliarity with writing in English. What?”

Sebastian is staring at him. “I mean about the message.”

John colors. “‘John ~~Watson~~  15:15,’”he reads. “‘Watson’ is scratched out.”

“Do you know what it means?” Sebastian is watching him carefully.

“Me. And that-- Three fifteen in the afternoon?”

Sebastian takes the paper back and silently rubs it between his finger and thumb. The train jolts and he snaps out of his reverie to grin at John. It may be the saddest smile John has ever seen. 

“This was my order, the last one Jim ever gave me. He had this stupid joke about my memory, so he’d write stuff down. ‘ _Shoot him in the head, Sebastian._ ’ and ‘ _Don’t get caught_.’” He laughs softly. “‘In case you forget,’ Jim said. ‘John Watson. Don’t be late.’”

“You were going to kill me?”

“Nah, not that day. Not me. I just had to get you out of the way. That was the time for the phone call. You remember. The call from the hospital.”

John stares at him. “ _You?_ ”

Sebastian affects a tired, professional voice, “Doctor Watson? You’re listed as the emergency contact for Martha Hudson--”

“Stop.”

Sebastian grins a little wider. “Had to get you out of the way, then get everyone into position. Watch Holmes jump. Clean up after-- Clean up after everyone. That’s the job, isn’t it? Cleaning up.”

John forces himself to breathe evenly, staring down at Sebastian’s boots. Sebastian tucks the paper back into his pocket and they stay silent as they transfer trains and finally make their way onto the open street. John feels his head clear with each inhale, hours of recycled air from airport to aeroplane to underground slowly clearing out of his lungs. He stops and leans against a chipped and graffitied doorway. Sebastian says nothing, but stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets and scanning the rooftops absently.

“It’s weird,” John says finally. “For me. Thinking about what you did before, I mean.”

“I’m not going to apologize.” Sebastian doesn’t look at him, still contemplating the sky.

“I know you’re not. I’m just explaining-- You know what? Never mind. Forget it.”

“All right.” Sebastian turns on his heel and starts down the street. John straightens his shoulders and follows.

 

“Well, that was productive,” Sebastian says as he locks the door behind them. John dumps his bag next to the bookshelf and drops onto the couch. Sebastian grumbles and settles sideways in the armchair, legs hanging over the arms.

“You want to do the honors?” he asks, nodding at the card table. John laughs shortly and rises, plucking a felt-tip pen from the coffee table. 

“Just cross it off?”

“Whatever you like.”

He neatly draws an “X” over the Conservatory space and the card tacked to it, printing the date on the side. The lines meet in the center of the cartoon woman’s stomach, like a target.

“It actually does make me feel better,” John chuckles, surveying the board. He turns at a pair of thumps behind him to find Sebastian stretching his newly-bare feet, toes curling and nearly scraping the floor.  
“It’s the little things,” he yawns, scratching his scalp. “Really, though. What do you think it means?”

John holds out his hand and Sebastian gives him the paper, curling back in on himself as he stretches out his shoulders.

“He didn’t give it me, he gave it to you. So maybe he doesn’t know who I am? Maybe it means something else. Where was this paper? What did you do with it after Jim gave it to you?”

“Threw it out, I thought. He must have saved it.”

John considers the paper. “‘Watson’ is crossed out. Do you think-- Do they know I’m not using that name anymore? They’re telling you that they know who you’re working with?”

“Why? A threat? What’s the point? They wouldn’t turn you over to the police.”

“If Moriarty were still alive I’d accept the police getting involved. But without him it seems too dangerous.”

Sebastian nods in agreement.

John turns the paper over and over in his hands. “There must be a reason,” he mutters. “You threw it out while you were with Moriarty?”

“Tossed in the bin as soon as he gave it to me. He laughed.” Sebastian’s eyes are closed, head tipped back against the arm of the chair. His hair stands almost straight up with three days of sweat and dust.

“You need a shower,” John blurts out. Sebastian opens one eye and looks at him. He clears his throat and looks back to the paper.

“John Watson, three in the afternoon. John Watson, fifteen fifteen. John, three fifteen PM.”

Sebastian suddenly sits up. “Was there a bible?”

“What?”

“In these boxes. There was a bible, wasn’t there? And old King James.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” John begins, but Sebastian is already up, tearing through the neat piles of artifacts. 

“He loved it. ‘King James,’ he said. Thought it was hilarious. He liked the words, the weight of them. I never got it; I always said he liked feeding his-- You know, he thought he was God, most of the time. Here!” He tosses a small leatherbound volume to John, who snatches it out of the air.

“What are you talking about?”

“John fifteen fifteen. Book of John, Chapter fifteen, verse fifteen.”

“Oh. Oh! You think?”

“Maybe.” Sebastian drops back into his chair.

John opens the book and flips through it, clumsily. His fingers stick on a page and his eyes catch a few words. _I will fear no evil; For thou art with me_ . . . He stills, words echoing in his ears. The funeral had been horrible. He went because he had to, because he didn’t have an excuse, because he was afraid that if he didn’t no one would. A dark old Anglican church, a decrepit, old, Anglican priest droning on and on. Saying that Sherlock was in a “Better Place.” And John sat there, wanting to scream, because if Sherlock had found a Better Place, if he’d really, truly done the research and run the tests and discovered a way to get to Heaven, he wouldn’t have gone without John. If he believed in Heaven, he wouldn’t have gone without John. And John sat, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the pew, and felt like a child, felt ashamed for thinking of himself at his best friend’s funeral. The priest’s voice droned on and on and John was afraid he might faint.

“John,” Sebastian says, and John snaps alert. “Fifteen fifteen.”

“Right. Right.” He flips pages and mentally shakes himself.

“I haven’t been in a church in years,” Sebastian murmurs. “Haven’t thought about it. A chaplain service or two in Iraq, mostly, you know, memorial things.”

John is suddenly irritated with him, with Moriarty, with the whole game. He flips the pages viciously, his fingers feeling too large for the thin pages. He grumbles to himself and rips a page. _Genisis. Leviticus. Psalms._

Sebastian tips his head back and thinks, humming to himself and folding his hands over his stomach. Something about the pose--the blatant disrespect for proper posture, the monk-like air of contemplation, the angles of his face--brings the image of Sherlock so sharply to mind that John nearly gags. _Sherlock is alive_ , he tells himself firmly. _He’s alive_. 

_But he’s not here_ , a treacherous corner of his brain insists, and he suddenly hates Sebastian, hates him for daring to sit in a chair like he’s never seen one before, for closing his eyes and humming like a violin, for not being Sherlock.

“Did your daughter have a funeral?” He tosses the question like a mortar and waits for the explosion. It doesn’t come. Sebastian opens his eyes and rolls his head to look at John.

“Yeah. We hadn’t had her baptized, yet, so the priest told us she couldn’t get to Heaven.” He looks back to the ceiling. “Bit old-fashioned of him, really.”

“I--”

“Haven’t been in a church since. Don’t see the point, really.” He sits up again, but stays in the chair, feet tucked in and elbow propped on the back of the chair. “Go on, then. Fifteen fifteen.”

John glares at him and finds the page.“It could be nothing,” he warns as he scans it.

“Could be. Don’t know yet.”

“Here it is. John 15:15. ‘Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant knoweth not was his lord doeth: but I have called you friends; for all things that I have heard of my Father I have made known unto you.’”

John looks up and catches Sebastian staring out the window looking stricken. It looks like gravity has increased on every inch of the his body, like it’s all he can do to sit upright. Then he notices John’s eyes on him and his mouth settles into it’s customary half-smirk.

“Probably means nothing,” he says, running a hand through his filthy hair. “Just a load of shit.”

“Probably,” John agrees, but he tucks the slip of paper into the bible, marking the page. “You never know.”

“With Jim? No, you really don’t.” Sebastian rises and pads across the floor to the bathroom, scooping up his bag as he goes. “I’m having a shower. Get some takeaway, yeah? I’m fucking starved.” 

John sets the bible back on the stack and looks over the Cluedo board, listening to the creaking of old pipes and quiet burst of water. He taps the corner of the board and sighs.


	9. Rev. Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> São Paulo, part one.

John rises late the next morning and stumbles into the midday light of the kitchen, flinching as he brushes the still-tender wound on his scalp. Sebastian is leaning against the counter, bible pressed between his hands.

“Any progress?” John asks and reaches around him to pour himself a cup of coffee. Sebastian shakes his head.

“Good and faithful servant, he used to call me,” he says, tapping an uneven rhythm against the leather. “Fuck it.” He tosses the book on to the counter and reaches up to grab a mug. 

“Probably something to do with the Billiard Room, though, right? Bible, Jerusalem.”

Sebastian shrugs. “I guess.”

“So where do we go from here?”

Sebastian pours himself coffee and takes a thoughtful sip. “Brazil.”

“Brazil?”

“You have any better ideas?”

“No,” John says cheerily. “Not really. When do we go?”

Sebastian shrugs, setting his coffee on the counter. “Tomorrow. Might as well.” He reaches out a pinches the back of John’s T-shirt, pulling at the tag. “Your shirt’s inside-out.”

John cranes his neck to look. “Oh. Doesn’t really matter, does it? Just us.”

Sebastian doesn’t release the fabric. He tilts his head to the side, thoughtfully, and asks, “Are you still going to kill me?”

“Are you still trying to kill Sherlock?”

“Yeah. Yes. Wouldn’t you, if you were me?”

John pulls away from him, yanking the shirt out of his grasp. “I wouldn’t _be_ you,” he spits and turns towards the living room.

“Hey,” Sebastian says quietly and John halts, smiling lightly as the fist catches him right under his ribs. He crumples and turns, stomping down on Sebastian’s foot and jamming an elbow into his gut.

“Been awhile,” he grunts as Sebastian gets him around the neck and hooks his ankle.

“I know,” Sebastian grins at him from an inch away before yanking his leg and carrying them both to the floor. “I was starting to think you didn’t like me anymore.”

John laughs and slams Sebastian’s head into the linoleum. It’s nice to have a day off.

 

Thursday afternoon sees them stepping out of a taxi in São Paulo, directly in front of a restaurant with a garishly painted sign reading “ _Fim do Caminho_.” Sebastian checks the paper in his hand.

“This is the place. What does it mean?”

“‘End of the road,’ I think,” John replies, looking warily up and down the almost deserted street.

“That’s comforting,” Sebastian says and shoulders open the door. It’s a smallish place, about twenty tables and an open kitchen visible behind a counter. Three cooks saunter around the kitchen, one bored waitress leans against the counter with a sweating glass of water, and one old couple in a booth turn to stare suspiciously as the men enter. They nod awkwardly and claim a table near the kitchen--close enough to see the staff but not so close as to be easily overheard over the hiss of fryers and steady percussion of meat cleavers.

“Who do you think it is?” Sebastian says, scanning the room. “I’m going to rule out the waitress--though it would be just like him to find the one female ‘Fausto’ in the country.”

“Or Tadeus. We don’t even know his fucking name, Seb.”

“We’ll figure it out. Eat first.”

They order lunch by pointing randomly at the menu. Sebastian ends up with fish, which he immediately trades for John’s chicken. John thinks about putting up a fight, but the fish is excellent, so he sighs and goes with it. 

They eat in silence for a minute or two until Sebastian stops and stares thoughtfully into his water glass.

“What?” John asks, kicking his foot under the table.

“I miss my rifle.”

“For fuck’s sake, there’s no way you could bring it on the plane.”

“I know,” he says defensively, the closest to pouting that John’s ever seen him. “It’s just weird to be without it. India was different, the threat was already gone. But not knowing who we’re looking for, what to expect. I just like having it around.”

John sets his fork down. “Where the hell do you shoot it, anyway? At least once a week you come home with that case over your shoulder, but you never mention shooting anybody.”

“Do I have to tell you every time I shoot somebody?”

“I think-- Yeah. Yeah, I think you do. I think our relationship is at that point. You have to tell me when you kill someone.”

“Kill or just shoot?” Sebastian asks seriously, though there is laughter in his eyes.

John pretends to contemplate the question. “Both, I think. Yeah, I think both. I think we’re there. We’re at that level.”

Sebastian sighs. “Ball and chain. I used to be so free.”

John giggles and the surprisingly high pitch makes Sebastian snort. The waitress looks over at them with a scowl and solemnly turn back to their food. 

“It’s better this way, though,” John says after a bite. “Because this way I can cover you.”

Sebastian smiles around a mouthful of chicken and says nothing.

“So what do you think?” John asks after a moment of silence.

“Guy at the fryers looks likely, but the fellow in back’s pretty handy with those knives.”

“He’s a cook, Seb, of course he’s going to be handy with knives. You think they tore that fish apart with their fingers?”

“You’re hilarious, aren’t you.” He cranes his neck to examine the rest of the staff. The waitress watches him suspiciously.

“Look, let’s just get this over with,” John sighs and rises, grabbing Lopes’ profile from under Sebastian’s elbow. Sebastian starts to grab his arm, but John dodges him and approaches the waitress with a winning smile. He fumbles with the paper more than he needs to, one shoulder raised awkwardly and lower lip between his teeth. 

“English?” he asks hopefully, meeting and holding her eyes.

“Little,” she replies, face softening at his grateful expression.

“I need to find, uh, Senhor Lopes? Anyone called Lopes, here?”

The waitress tenses and looks around at the cooks. Two have frozen at the sound of the name, while the third keeps up a steady rhythm of knife on cutting board.

“Lopes? Fausto Lopes?” she asks. “Why?”

John smiles wider and even blushes a bit. “God, my Portuguese is terrible. I am-- Executor? Do you know that--? No? Okay. Um. Senhor Lopes, his aunt-- Tía? Is dead.” He draws a finger across his throat and then grimaces. The waitress laughs in spite of herself, nodding.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” she says.

“She left him money. And other things. And I need to find him, to give him these things. Yes?”

The waitress nods again, then turns towards the kitchen. She has a short discussion in Portuguese with the man at the fryer, then turns back to John. 

“He is very-- secret? No, no. Private. He is very private, Senhor Lopes.”

“Oh, so he’s not--” John points at the cooks, confused. “He’s not here. This man is not Senhor Lopes. Or this one.”

She giggles. “No, no. Senhor Lopes is-- How do you--? Chefe? This is his,” she taps the counter and points around at the restaurant.

“He’s the owner?” John glances over to Sebastian, who raises an eyebrow. “Right. Right. So, is he here? Now?”

She shakes her head. “No, not here.”

“Does he have an address? Address, um, house? Home? I have very little time,” John taps his watch, looking embarrassed. “I need to see him very soon. Pronto? Rápido?”

“One minute,” she says, and turns back to the cook. He pulls out a phone and taps a few buttons, then waits, holding it in his hand. John leans against the counter, taking stock of the other customers, the other staff, and Sebastian. Sebastian has finished his chicken and moved on to John’s fish. John narrows his eyes at the action, and Sebastian grins wolfishly. The cook with the knives keeps chopping, a steady staccato rhythm to accompany the awkward silence. Finally the cook’s phone beeps and he shows the screen to the waitress. She nods and crosses back to John.

“Senhor Lopes will see you. He has a house in the city; he will go there tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, at, ah, ten o’clock. ” She picks up a pen and feeds a blank strip of paper out of the receipt printer. John leans just slightly over the counter to watch her draw a sketchy map, labeled with a few street names.

“You use the taxi? Taxicab?” she asks. He nods. “Give this. You will find it.”

He thanks her with a smile and calls “Delicioso,” over the counter into the kitchen. The man at the fryer nods at him.

“Finished my lunch then, have you?” he mutters as he drops back into his seat. “Let me do all the work.”

“She gave you a fucking map?  What the fuck did you do, drug her?”

John rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to be violent to get what you want, you know. A little charm can go a long way. I guess it’s just one of those things you can’t understand. You are many things, Seb, but charming you are not.”

Sebastian scowls at him. “Fuck you, Johnny. I’m plenty charming. Got you, didn’t I?”

John tries to respond but finds his voice lost somewhere in the sudden flip of his stomach. 

“Let’s go,” he forces out. “We’ve got equipment to pick up at the hotel before we find Lopes. We’re not waiting until ten, are we?”

“‘Course not.”

“So come on.” He leaves the restaurant without looking behind him, face feeling uncomfortably hot. Sebastian whistles behind him, hands in his pockets, not a care in the world

 

Lopes’ house is extravagantly huge. They stop the cab a block away and stake the place out for about half an hour, but no one comes in or goes out.

Getting in is easier than expected. Sebastian disappears behind a hedge and comes back with a handful of snipped wires.

“Security’s down. We can go in.”

“Seriously? That’s it?”

Sebastian blinks at him. “What? This is nothing.”

John sighs and leads the way around the hedge to press against the side wall of the house.

“Do you ever think maybe you were doing something wrong?” he whispers.

“What?”

“Look at this fucking house. And Gupta’s wasn’t exactly a studio, either. For Moriarty’s right hand you’re a bit--”

“What? A bit what?”

John shrugs. “I’m just saying. Reverend Green, a mansion and a successful restaurant. Colonel Mustard . . .”

“Very smart. Will you shut the fuck up and get the window open?”  
Inside, the place is spotless. It barely looks lived-in, the sitting room full of furniture hidden by ghostly white sheets. Sebastian pinches one between his fingers and wrinkles his nose.

“What’s the _point_?” he whispers at John. John ignores him and leads the way to an open hallway, substitute Browning steady between his hands. Sebastian has his own handgun, this time, which is covering the hallway behind them. John is finding that he likes this, this moving back-to-back. He rarely had these moments with Sherlock; most of their cases involved John at least three steps behind at all times. Sebastian nudges his shoulder and he halts, looking back. Sebastian nods at a closed door across the hall. It’s not completely shut, so they freeze for a long minute, listening for any movement. Nothing happens, so John jerks his head and continues down the hall. The next room is a formal dining room, which appears to be empty. Sebastian pulls open some drawers on the antique sideboard, but finds nothing. He’s about to say as much to John when the silence is broken by a deafening noise. Sebastian’s first response is to drop to a crouch, scanning the room for a threat. John has his gun up in less than a second, pointing it directly at the open doorway. Sebastian closes the distance between them in two long strides, planting himself firmly at John’s shoulder.

“Alarm?” he asks, as the sound continues.

“No. Listen.” John turns on the spot and examines the walls. “Trumpets.”

“Trumpets?” Sebastian asks incredulously, just as a heavy percussion and then a chorus of horns joins what is now obviously an incredibly loud trumpet.

“There. See?” John has to lean in close and speak directly into Sebastian’s ear. He gestures with the gun up to a blinking red light on the wall. Closer inspection reveals the delicate grille of a mounted intercom. Sebastian raises his gun casually and shoots the speaker dead in the center. The music is so loud that John can barely hear the shot.

The music doesn’t stop, coming down the hall and through the walls on either side of them, but they at least are able to think straight.

“So he knows we’re here.” Sebastian mutters in John’s ear.

“He must. Fucking _jazz_? Christ have mercy.”

Sebastian starts towards the door. “Might as well face--”

“Don’t you dare say ‘face the music.’ I will shoot you in the fucking face if you say ‘face the music.’”

Sebastian grins slightly, but his face is tight. He leads the way out of the room, John at his shoulder. They find a wide staircase and gingerly climb, prepared for an ambush once they reach the shadows at the top. Nothing happens. John notices a faint strip of light coming down the hallway, leaking out from underneath a door. He nudges Sebastian, who nods once and proceeds through the darkened passage to the side of the doorway. He reaches for the handle, but John hisses and shakes his head. Sebastian pulls back and waits.

“Here, grab that table.” John gestures to a wrought iron plant stand a few yards down the hall. Sebastian sets the potted plant on the ground and brings the surprisingly heavy table back to the door. “On three, okay?” John counts down on his fingers, cueing Sebastian with a shake of his closed fist. Sebastian slams the table into the door, forcing it open, then dives back as a burst of gunfire barely misses him. There is a faint voice from inside the room, but between the gunfire and the music it’s impossible to make out any words.

“Sorry, mate,” Sebastian bellows. “You’ll have to turn it down if you want a chat. And stop with the bloody Kalashnikov.”

“Kalashnikov?” John murmurs, raising an eyebrow.

“Distinctive sound. Always wanted a Kalashnikov, myself.” 

The music abruptly cuts out and a man’s voice emerges from the room.

“I know who you are.”

John and Sebastian look at each other.

“That’s . . . nice,” John calls back.

“Flynn and Moran. I heard what you did to Nicky Gupta.”

“Yeah, well, business is business,” Sebastian responds, fiddling with his gun. “What’s your name, anyway? Flynn’s got money on Tadeus, but I’m thinking Fausto.”

“Neither,” the man calls. “My name is João. I find it easiest to have a few names going at a time.”

“Smart man.”

“You don’t want to kill me, Moran. I’ve got a lot going on, here. I have a lot of people under me, you see. Under my control. Very useful.”

Sebastian readjusts his weapon and nods at John before shouting “Tell me about it. I need details.”

“There is a network, very high up with the government offic--”

John pivots into the doorway and shoots the man directly in the throat. He falls to his knees with a gurgle, rifle falling from his hands and clattering on the hardwood floor. The room is a kind of study, a bank of computers set into one wall and a few shelves of books lining another. 

Sebastian steps into the room, looking over the body.

“Nice,” he says, giving John a nudge on the shoulder. 

“It’s a gift,” John replies drily and begins to examine the computers. “This stuff is going to have to be wiped, you know. Unless we’re planning on tracking down the whole South American network.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“South American.” John suddenly stops his search and looks at Sebastian. “You don’t have a North American agent, do you? Nobody in the States?”

Sebastian wrinkles his nose. “That’s more of a-- Jim had a deal with the people running the show up there. We don’t really get involved unless we have to. It’s cleaner that way. He doesn’t really-- didn’t really work well with Americans.”

John nods and starts tapping at some of the computers, trying to bring up a familiar looking screen. Sebastian watches him with amusement for a while before leaning down and picking up the fallen rifle. 

“That is actually painful to watch. Step back, Johnny, I’ll show you how to get rid of a file.” John is barely a safe distance away when Sebastian opens fire. He doesn’t leave a square inch of solid plastic or glass, then methodically pokes around the wreckage and smashes any leftover chunks he can find. John finds it almost . . . endearing.  

He has just started to help with the smashing when there is a scream behind them. Sebastian wheels around and pulls the trigger, and a small woman in grey coveralls and rubber gloves staggers back against the wall.

“Stop!” John screams, knocking the gun down as he runs to the woman. “What the fuck, Sebastian? What the fuck are you doing?”

Sebastian winces. “Shit.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” John drops to his knees and holds the woman’s head. “She’s unarmed!”

Sebastian drops the weapon and starts forward, pulling at his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know! She screamed. Why is she here? Why is she here at all?”

The woman is gasping, coveralls already stained deep red and blood bubbling in the corner of her mouth. Her torso is barely in one piece and she gapes up at John like suffocating fish.

“It’s okay, darling, don’t worry. It’s okay, I’ve got you, just breathe nice and easy,” John murmurs, feeling her throat and pressing ineffectually at her wounds.

“Get an ambulance! Do it!” he orders, and Sebastian picks up the desk phone with shaking hands.

“Why is she here? Why the fuck would she be here?” he repeats, dialing numbers at random.

“Are you calling? Have you called yet?”

“No, I-- Christ! What’s the number, here? Is it 999?”

“I don’t know,” John roars. “I don’t fucking know!”

The woman shudders under his hands and falls still.

“Fuck,” John says hollowly, staring at her body. “Fuck!” he pushes himself to his feet and kicks the wall.

“Why is she here?” Sebastian asks again, unable to say anything else.

“She’s a fucking _maid_ , Sebastian. An unarmed fucking maid.”

“I didn’t know-- She screamed, Johnny, what was I supposed to do?”  
“Not shoot an unarmed woman, you-- you _cunt_! You illiterate fucking _psychopath_.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t-- It was a mistake.”

“You’re _sorry_?” John spits. “You made a _mistake_? You don’t make _mistakes_ , Sebastian. Don’t pretend I don’t know you. You saw her before you shot. Don’t lie to me.”

Sebastian glares at him. “So what if I did? It’s not like witnesses are really going to help us-- There’s bound to be collateral--”

“Christ! Witnesses! Collateral? Jesus fucking Christ!” John rises and paces around the room in an agitated circle. “I can’t believe I thought this would work. How the _fuck_ did I think this would work out? God, I’m an idiot. He was right, he was always right, I’m a fucking _idiot_.”

“Johnny--”

“Don’t. I thought-- I convinced myself that we were . . . the same. We’re not the same. You’re . . . _that_ , you’re that _thing_ that-- No. No, I can’t do this.”

He sticks his gun into the waistband of his trousers and launches himself at the door. 

“Johnny, wait--”

“Don’t,” he stops short and turns on Sebastian with a feral growl. “Don’t follow me.” He shoves past the bashed-in door and down the stairs, wiping blood from his hands onto the wallpaper as he goes. He slams out of the house and turns up his collar, eyes on the sidewalk in front of him. He is so wrapped up in his own fury and the shadows of thickly-growing bushes that he  doesn’t notice the black car parked on the other side of the street. If he did, he might see a young man pull out a sleek black phone and mutter, “Lopes is neutralized, Sir. Yes Sir; Moran and Flynn. Absolutely, Sir,” before starting the engine and sliding ghost-like around the corner and out of sight.


	10. Bone and Muscle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volatile substances interact

John doesn’t get very far. He stops a few streets away to lean against the boarded-up doorway of an old convenience store. His anger is fading and is gradually replaced by a pressing, suffocating loneliness. The return of the feeling makes him realize, suddenly, that he hasn’t felt it for months now. The loss of Sherlock, the absence of him, is a constant ache, but loneliness--that feeling of being buried alive, of ice forming around his ribs--had slipped away so slowly that he never even noticed it was gone. Until now, when it floods back into him, pressing behind his eyes. He wraps his arms around himself and allows himself a full minute of thoughtless misery.

When he comes back to himself he checks his pockets, counting his remaining reales. Plenty for a taxi back to the hotel, possibly even for a new room somewhere else. Certainly enough for a pint. He wanders until he finds a bar--more upscale than his usual taste, but beer is beer. He gets himself a pint by pointing and grunting and finds a table in the corner.

He weighs his options. Sherlock has to have São Paulo on his list, somewhere. He got to Divekar before them, so it’s possible that he could be here, now. Here in this city, in this neighborhood. A block away, maybe. He’ll find Lopes already dead, or he’ll get the news from somebody. 

Lopes knew their names, so it’s likely Sherlock does, too. Moran and Flynn. He might even know who Johnny Flynn--

The bitterness of the beer mixes with a new bitterness rising in his mouth. A cold little voice breaks into the back of his mind, and he can’t shut it out. 

Sherlock is tearing down the web, but he’s doing it alone. He didn’t bring you along. You’re useless to him. He’d rather be dead than with you.

_Sherlock. Is. Alive._

He never told you anything. He’d rather have you shut up in a clinic in Glasgow, because you’re useless. He doesn’t think you can take it, doesn’t think you were capable of this kind of fight.

_Sebastian does--_

John drops his head into his hands and groans. A flirting couple a few tables over cast him a worried look. He finishes his pint and turns the glass around between his hands. The temptation of a stronger drink is almost too much, but he sets it back on the table and leaves. 

_Sebastian knows what you can do_ , he tells himself. _He sought you out; he needs--_

John stops at the corner and rubs at his eyes, forcing himself to think of Sherlock, only Sherlock. If Sherlock is here--and that is a giant “if”--he’s after Lopes. Expecting nothing, John shoves his hands into his pockets and heads back the way he came, guessing at some corners but finding his way back to Lopes’ block.

The house is burning. Massive billows of smoke roll out across the street and a series of small explosions drive dark orange flames higher and higher into the air. John jogs as close as he dares and scans the surrounding area. The street is empty, and though lights shine through some windows, no one dares come outside. Three houses down he catches sight of an old man’s face at the window. The man pulls back and flicks the curtain closed as John meets his eyes. John moves  as close to the fire as he dares.

“Sherlock?” he calls quietly, half for fear of someone listening, half out of embarrassment. _Don’t be an idiot, John_. “Sherlock, you here?”

There is no answer; he can hardly hear a thing over the creaking and popping of burning wood.

“Sherlock!” he shouts, picking up his pace and half-running through the smoke-filled yard. “Sherlock, are you--”

He has to break off to cough out a lungful of smoke, stumbling back into clearer air. He gets his breath back, forcing himself into rational thinking. If Sherlock was here at all, he’s gone now. He’s most likely not even in Brazil. _Don’t be an idiot, John._ He takes another steadying breath, then pulls his shirt over his mouth, heading back into the smoke.

“Sebastian!” he shouts through the fabric, eyes barely slits against the heat. “Seb! Where the fuck are you?” He regrets not asking Sebastian to set him up on Moriarty’s closed phone network. Wandering around without a phone feels a bit like missing an ear, or a finger. He tells himself not to be worried; why should he worry? After everything? But he keeps calling out.

“Seb? Sebastian! Damnit, Moran, where the fuck are you?”

He searches around the fire for another ten minutes, as close as he dares, but comes up with nothing. As the sound of sirens gradually gets louder, he climbs over Lopes’ back fence and takes off through a series of gardens to an open street. If the cab driver finds anything strange about his ashy, sweaty appearance, he says nothing. John gives the name of the hotel and a fistful of bills, well over the fare plus a decent tip.

He deliberately does _not_ burst through the door of the hotel room. He enters very calmly and takes stock of the place, wiping his forehead. Sebastian is sitting on the floor in just trousers and undershirt, side pressed up against the coffee table. The room is much nicer than their place in Mumbai--two single beds and a small area to the side with a couch and chair and low table. Sebastian has a liter of whiskey on the ground beside him, one-quarter empty, a cigarette in one hand and his handgun laid out on the table beside him. The bullets are strewn across the table, and he absently toys with them as he looks out the picture window into the dark.

“Didn’t think you’d be back,” he says, not turning around.

“Is that why you’re drinking?”

Sebastian takes a swig, a half-hearted rebellion, before muttering, “Not even drunk.”

John crosses to him and takes the bottle, capping it and placing it on top of the built-in chest of drawers. Sebastian turns to look at him, eyes widening slightly at the state of him.

“Did you go by the restaurant?” he asks, rising.

“The what? The restaurant? No. Lopes’ house. I went back to the house; it’s gone now.”

Sebastian pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s the same phone he offered to John on their second meeting, though he’s switched out the SIM card and increased the security.

“Someone sent me a photo; I thought it might’ve been you.” He holds the phone out to John. The restaurant--the same restaurant they ate at earlier in the day--is completely engulfed in flames. Only a corner of the cheerily colored sign is still visible, and half of the building is blocked by an ambulance. A body is half in, half out of the ambulance, covered by a blue sheet with an arm hanging off the edge.

John looks at it for a moment, not taking the phone. “So,” he begins. “The fires weren’t you, then.”

“Or you.”

“Right. That’s still on the closed network, yeah?”

“Yes.” Sebastian slides the phone shut and drops it onto the couch, running a hand through his hair so it sticks straight up from his scalp. John thinks about commenting on it, but sighs instead and shrugs out of his jacket.

“Why did you come back?” Sebastian asks lightly, dropping onto the couch and taking a long drag of his cigarette. 

John steps into the bathroom to wipe soot from his face. “Where else was I supposed to go?” he shouts behind him, holding a wet cloth against his eyes.

“Anywhere,” Sebastian mutters. “Any place at all.” He stubs out his cigarette directly on the varnished wood of the coffee table and rises to lean against the wall by the bathroom. “I thought this wasn’t going to work. I’m an _illiterate_ _psychopath,_ remember?”

John lowers the cloth and looks at him in the mirror. “You want to talk about this now?”

Sebastian shrugs. John drops the cloth and turns to him.

“There is no such thing as collateral damage. Not to me. Do you understand?” Sebastian pushes off the wall and paces into the center of the room.

“It wasn’t intentional; I told you. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“Like Aaron Mahad.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightens. “Yeah, like that.”  
John steps towards him, face solemn. “No more mistakes. No more collateral. If there are witnesses, you let me deal with it.”

“What are you going to do, charm them to--?”  
“You let me deal with it. Is that clear?”

Sebastian stares at him defiantly for a moment, then nods shortly. 

“You’re not leaving, then?” he asks, face blank.

“Do you think we can work together?”

Sebastian shrugs. “You’re used to Holmes. I’m not him; I can’t think like that.”

John laughs shortly. “No one can. That’s not an excuse, Seb. You can think enough not to shoot bystanders.”

“You have to remember, I’m just dumb muscle. That’s what I am; that’s what I’m good for. My whole life. Muscle doesn’t think, muscle just does.”

John looks at him curiously. “Okay.”

“I’m not stupid. I’m not fucking useless, I just--”

“Seb, I don’t expect--”

“No. Listen. Holmes is-- Holmes is up here, right?” he slices a finger across his own throat. “From here up. He’s all this, this brain stuff. That’s all it is. Everything underneath it is . . . whatever. Extra. That’s not me. That’s all I’m saying.” He drops his hand and turns away.

“What are you?” John asks, taking a step forward. Sebastian turns back and meets John’s eyes. They are both silent for a long moment, John’s silence a challenge and Sebastian’s a held breath. Finally, he holds out his right arm, straight from the shoulder. His left hand settles blade-like against his shoulder, cutting the arm off from the rest of his body. As John watches, he slowly curls his right hand into a fist, elbow straightening, muscles raising and tightening down his arm until the veins in his forearm seem to pop out of his skin. His breath seems very loud and his eyes never leave John’s face.

John takes a slow step forward, daring him to move. Sebastian holds his ground, spine straightening as if for inspection. John stops about a foot away from him, close enough to feel the other man’s breath against his hair, though his chest doesn’t appear to rise or fall. He raises one hand, painfully slowly, and trails a fingertip down the outstretched arm, shoulder to wrist. Sebastian sucks in a breath but does not move. John does it again, pausing to circle his elbow and the protruding bone at his wrist. He follows the tendons, the meandering veins, down to each tensed knuckle. Gently, he runs his thumb along each finger in turn, repeating the motion until each one relaxes and hangs just slightly curved towards the palm. John finally looks up at Sebastian’s face and sees something very like fear in the darkness of his eyes. They aren’t the empty eyes from months ago; they seem to be reflecting too much light, too much hunger and hesitation.

“God, you’re young, aren’t you?” John whispers, barely conscious of speaking. Sebastian open his mouth to respond, his chapped lips slow to separate from one another, and John cuts him off by driving both hands into the thick mass of his hair and pulling him into a kiss.

He doesn’t respond immediately, eyes widening and chest stuttering with a sudden inhale. John doesn’t release him, so after a moment he pulls in his now-stiff arm and wraps it around the John’s back, fisting the other hand into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in, so tight that it hurts.

They stay like that for a few long minutes, eyes shut, just holding and negotiating the differences between their mouths. Then Sebastian’s knees buckle and he pulls John down to the thin carpet, catching him before his elbows slam against the ground. Their mouths lose contact during the maneuver, and John ends up with his face in the curve of Sebastian’s shoulder, hands still tightening and loosening in is hair. He starts to push himself up, but is stopped by the solid hold of Sebastian’s arms around him, one hand at his waist, the other at the nape of his neck. There is a long moment during which neither of them move or speak. John is suddenly struck by how long it’s been, how agonizingly long it has been since he was chest-to-chest with another person, since he’d last been held like this. This warm cage of bone and muscle. 

He turns his face and presses closed lips against the side of Sebastian’s neck, and Sebastian lets out a soft sound. John concentrates on recreating the sensation, sliding one hand out of his hair and down to the hem of his undershirt. His lips find Sebastian’s ear and his hand slides upward against bare skin.

“Don’t--” Sebastian whispers and John freezes, pulling back.

“What?” he murmurs, and pushes himself up on his elbow to look at the other man’s face. Sebastian is staring up at the ceiling, lips pressed together. His hands are still fisted in John’s shirt, but he won’t meet his eyes. “Seb--”

“Don’t pretend I’m him.”

The request is forced out through a clenched jaw and hangs between them like a confession, like some delicate, volatile element. John catches it between their mouths and presses his hand against Sebastian’s ribs as hard as he dares, then harder. Sebastian huffs out a breath and sucks on John’s lower lip, pulling his shirt up over his head, not bothering with the buttons. John reluctantly releases his mouth to pull the shirt off, sitting back on his heels to allow Sebastian to do the same.

The sudden distance feels like a splash of cold water, the bare expanse of skin below him a terrifying proposition. Five long, ragged scars cross Sebastian’s chest from his left shoulder down to the curve of his right side. John traces them with hesitant fingers as Sebastian stills. He picks up Sebastian’s hand from the floor and presses it against his own left shoulder, feeling strong fingers explore the ruined flesh. Sebastian pushes himself up on one elbow and trails his hand from the scar across the rise and fall of John’s chest.

“I’ve never--” John starts quietly, trailing off as Sebastian rubs a thumb firmly across his nipple.

“Me neither,” Sebastian admits, and the funny sideways grin is back for the first time since dinner. “Sure, how hard can it be?” John grins back, feeling the solid floor under his knees and the more solid muscle beneath the rest of him, fear dissolving. He has Sebastian’s fly open in seconds, his own trousers shoved down around his knees. Sebastian is laughing at him, or maybe just laughing, so John bites at his mouth and presses his hips down and turns laughter into light, unexpected groans. Sebastian grabs onto the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and bites at the curve of his jaw. John squeezes his eyes shut and stops thinking.

When Sebastian finally gets their pants down and out of the way, there is too much friction between them. John yanks at Sebastian’s hair and twists his face into a grimace, but rocks faster, pressing down harder. He hisses and pulls Sebastian’s head back, running his tongue along his throat. Sebastian grabs John’s free hand and raises it to his mouth, licking a few wet stripes across palm and fingers before shoving it down between their stomachs. John takes the hint and spreads the wetness over both of their cocks, tugging more harshly than he would if he were alone, biting his tongue against the near-pain but loving the sharp cry that rips out of Sebastian’s mouth. He turns his head and presses his ear against the skin of Sebastian’s throat and flicks his thumb across the heads of both cocks together. He hears the catch in Sebastian’s breathing and feels the vibration of his groan as it slides up his throat. The feeling is so unbelievably intimate, like hearing from the inside out, and John finds himself wishing he were bigger, that he could spread out and cover every inch of skin as it writhes underneath him.

They don’t last very long, which isn’t all that surprising. John comes first, sinking his teeth into the smooth muscle of Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian slips his hand between them to finish himself off as he pulls John up by the hair to kiss him brutally as he rides out the aftershocks. John stays collapsed against his chest, not caring about the tangle of trousers around their ankles or the sticky mess drying between them. Sebastian’s fingers tap out a rhythm against his back that slows along with his breathing. 

“If this was a book,” he begins after a long moment of silence. “Would we--?”

“Doesn’t matter,” John says, pressing his forehead into Sebastian’s chest. 

“You all right?” Sebastian asks, running a finger down the back of his neck and making him shiver.

“Yeah,” he says, settling in and weaving his fingers back into the thick hair, damp with sweat and just barely starting to curl. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s all f-- It’s good. It’s good.”

They stay on the floor for a long time before moving to one of the beds. The bed is far too small to comfortably fit both of them, so after an hour of tossing and turning Sebastian moves across the room to the other, squeezing John’s shoulder as he goes. They are both asleep within minutes.


	11. New Status Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude. Morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With love for Pati79

John dreams, incredibly vividly, for the first time in months. He’s on top of a mountain--no, it’s a waterfall. He’s hiking up a rocky path, and he’s worried. There’s something he’s meant to do, but he forgot to write it down. He should have written it down; he’s better when he has a list of things to do. He always has been. He comes closer and closer to the edge of the waterfall as the path twists and turns, but he never once looks down at the roaring water. The sound of the water starts to fade, replaced by a low melody. It’s vaguely familiar, but he’s not sure how he knows it. Another thing he forgot to write down.

He wakes to a shaft of midmorning sun cutting directly across his face. He pushes himself up, rubbing at his eyes and stretching luxuriously. The tune from his dream continues; it takes him a moment to notice Sebastian sitting on the couch, humming to himself. He’s showered, shirt on but open, with a notebook balanced across his knees.

“What’re you doing?” John mumbles. Sebastian stops humming and looks over at him, surprised.

“Didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”

“You’re not reading, and you’re certainly not writing.”

Sebastian doesn’t answer for a moment, so John rises, grabbing his boxers from the floor near the foot of the bed. He expects to feel heat rise in his cheeks and his ears as he feels Sebastian’s eyes cut across the room to him. Instead he has to bite down a grin as he covers himself.

“Drawing,” Sebastian says lightly. “Just fucking-- Killing time.”

“Drawing what?” Sebastian holds the notebook out to him, sticking the pen between his teeth. John hesitates before taking it.

“Don’t worry, it’s not you.”

John flips him two fingers. The paper is covered with an intricately detailed floorplan of their apartment in London, seen from above. Hallways and doorways are marked with scrawled measurements, distance and height. Carpet patterns, scattered books and dirty dishes are rendered in perfect, miniscule detail. A top view of Sebastian himself is visible on the couch, one miniature leg stretched out on the coffee table, rifle beside him. Across the carefully demarcated hallway John sees a tiny version of himself, just the top of his head in front of one of his punching bags.

“I didn’t know you drew,” is the only thing he can think to say. Sebastian shrugs and takes the paper back, flipping it over on the table. 

“Good eyes and steady hands. Make a lot of maps.” He shrugs again, dismissively, and his damp hair flops across his forehead. Without thinking, John runs his fingers through it, enjoying the feeling of permission and the warm, soft mass of it.

“You want to go home?” He asks, leaning against the back of the couch. Sebastian is quiet for a moment.

“I think we should split up.”

John freezes and takes a step back. He wishes for pockets, for something to do with his hangs as they clench ineffectually by his side.

“Right,” he manages, shortly. “Okay.” Sebastian doesn’t move, spinning the pen between his fingers. John turns away from him and starts poking through his suitcase, jaw tight against the litany of _shitshitshitshit_ and _ofcourseofcourseofcourse_ that stars pounding in counterpoint behind his eyes.

“They probably know we’re here,” Sebastian continues, oblivious. “If they burnt down the house and the restaurant, chances are they know we’re here. They know who we are.”

John hesitates a second too long before responding. “Right.”

Sebastian twists around on the couch to face him, and John schools his face into nonchalance. Sebastian rises and leans against the arm of the couch, watching him.

“Right. So you leave this afternoon, go to Mexico or something before getting a flight to London. I’ll leave in the evening and go by way of-- I don’t know. Africa somewhere, maybe. Meet back at home by Saturday. What do you think?”

John stops refolding his clothes. “Meet back home?”

“Yeah. I think it would be safest if we travel separately.”

John hates the warm trickle of relief that slides down his spine, and simply nods stoically. Sebastian widens his eyes and holds out a hand.

“Come over here.” John doesn’t move. “Come. Over. Here.” Sebastian’s mouth starts to twist into the silhouette of a smile, and John drags his feet as he reluctantly moves towards him. Sebastian settles himself on the arm of the couch and fits his outstretched hand against John’s side. 

“I didn’t mean that kind of split up.”

John looks past him at the dull beige wallpaper. “It’s a vague statement.”

“Apparently.” Sebastian pulls him closer and looks up into his face, eyes almost black. “Are you freaking out?”

John can’t help but smile at the incongruity of the phrase in Sebastian’s voice. “I should be,” he says lightly and rests a palm against Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian takes the hand and slides it under the open folds of his shirt to press against warm skin.

“All good, right?”

John nods.

“Go clean up, would you? I wouldn’t let you on a plane looking like that.”

John pulls away and laughs. 

“I’m serious,” Sebastian continues, sliding off the arm to flop back across the sofa with his feet in the air. “You’re an embarrassment.”

“I’m an embarrassment. _I’m_ an embarrassment. Says the fucking art school sniper.” John flicks the bottom of his foot and strips of his boxers on the way to the bathroom.

“Fuck off, I never went to art school!”

“Yeah, ‘cause if you went to school you’d be able to read,” John calls over the sound of the fan.

“Fuck you, Johnny Flynn!” Sebastian shouts back.

“Yeah, not just now. Apparently I’m a mess.” John slams the door, but can hear Sebastian’s rusty bark of laughter carry over the first burst of running water. He jumps under the stream without waiting for it to warm up and doesn’t bother to bite back a yelp at the cold. He laughs at himself, at Sebastian, at the past week, the past few months, until he stops thinking, tilts his face into the water, and just laughs. 


	12. Vignettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John adjusts, Sebastian relaxes, and there's someone at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time between chapters. You know, if I haven't lost you already.   
> This chapter was a massive pain in the balls to get out, and remains pretty fragmented. Maybe edits will happen at some point? But probably not anytime soon.  
> Ach, well. This is fun, right?

Sebastian comes home three days late with a bruise on his jaw, a few on his ribs, and a sprained ankle. John is livid.

“Did you miss the whole _point_ of traveling separately? Keeping our heads down, avoiding this shit?”

Sebastian props his foot up on a pillow, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Johnny. It’s not like I was fucking _looking_ for him. It’s not about us, anyway. That was an old . . . well. I had it coming from way back.”

“I don’t care what--” John breaks off and stops his pacing, turning back to him. “I don’t care _why_ you got the shit kicked out of you--”

“I did _not_ \--”

“You just need to . . .” he trails off at Sebastian’s amused expression and drops down onto the arm of the sofa next to the injured foot. “Be more careful,” he finishes lamely.

Sebastian sits up, propping one arm against the back of the sofa.

“You’ve done worse yourself, you know. To me.” 

John gapes for a moment, then looks down at his hands. “That’s different,” he mutters. Sebastian leans closer.

“Why?”

“Because I know how to do it--” John flounders for a moment. “Right. Do it properly. There’s a right and a wrong-- You know what? Forget it.”

Sebastian grins at him. “So you know what’s _best_ for me, do you?”

“No. No, I--”

“You take _care_ of me, is that it?”

“God, no. That’s not what--”

Sebastian stretches back against the sofa, curling his toes and giving John a grin that on another face would be almost sultry. On his face it just looks predatory. “You are not my boss, Johnny.”

John’s mouth goes dry. “I know.”

“I don’t belong to you. I’m barely even _with_ you.”

“That’s obvious.”

Sebastian’s face sharpens. “Oh?”

John leans towards him, balancing on the arm. “If you were,” he growls, “ _with me_ , this shit,” he twists Sebastian’s injured foot slowly and firmly until his grimace breaks into a soft groan, “wouldn’t happen.”

“No?” Sebastian grits out, trying to stay casual through the sheen of sweat on his forehead. John rises, patting his foot gently and smiling innocently as he flinches away. 

“Nope.” He saunters into the kitchen, plugging in the electric kettle. Sebastian shifts back on the couch so his head hangs off the arm, stretching his neck to watch John upside down. John deliberately makes his tea, waiting for the water to boil completely, letting the bag steep for two minutes before adding milk and just a dash of sugar. Sebastian watches. 

John takes a slow and thoughtful drink, finishing off half the mug and licking his lips with a loud swallow and a satisfied sigh. Sebastian’s gaze burns into him from across the room. He takes the mug into the living and stands looking down at Sebastian’s bared throat, the overlong stretch of him against the cushions. He tilts his head to one side, critically, as the corner of Sebastian’s mouth curls up. John takes another long drink and sets the mug on the coffee table. Sebastian follows his movements with a languid twist of his neck as he shifts his uninjured leg up onto the couch and raises an eyebrow. John considers him, dragging his eyes from Sebastian’s parted lips all the way down to the bandage on his ankle. Sebastian shifts under his gaze, lips parting slightly. John nods briskly, then settles himself astride Sebastian’s hips, one hand on the back of the couch, the other on Sebastian’s leg behind him. The one-sided grin doesn’t change, but his breathing stutters for a moment before evening out.

“What is this, then?” John asks evenly, holding himself very still.

“What do you mean?”

“What are we doing? What are we?”

Sebastian pushes himself up onto his elbows, the action causing his hips to shift distractingly under John’s.

“Well. I’m Sebastian Moran and you’re Johnny Flynn.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugs. “Works for me.”

John hesitates for a moment, then nods sharply. Sebastian hooks one hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down for a biting kiss. John pushes him down into the cushions and Sebastian pushes back with hips and chest and shoulders and mouth. He pushes until John shuts off his brain and closes his eyes.

 

Time starts to pass strangely over the next few months. He isn’t in a fog, exactly. He thinks very clearly, stays active. The fighting and the sex--limited but relatively regular--keep his body occupied, and the compounding mysteries focus his mind. But he almost never thinks of the future. 

He talks about the past, of course: old cases, strange things Sherlock would do or say, odd happenings in Afghanistan. Sebastian always has a story to match, some riddle he’d helped to weave or some trail of bodies he’d left behind him. This all seems normal.

It’s more like . . . he’s surprised by the passing of time. Days pass as they always have, demarcated by meals and workouts, but they never seem to add up to anything. When he glances at the date on his new--secure--phone, it always startles him. Even the puzzles seem distant, lacking in urgency. He knows that Sherlock is alive, is sure that they will find him and clear out the rest of the organization. And while he feels no lethargy or depression, his mind refuses to focus on imagining that result. He hasn’t pictured a reunion, not once. And he as tried.

_It’s like a holiday_ , he tells himself. _A long holiday where nothing matters and you don’t have to think about what happens next. You’ve had a rough year; you deserve the time off. Just a holiday._ He repeats it like a prayer every time his mind starts to wander, whenever he finds himself paralyzed at the thought of _finishing_ or of _finding Sherlock_. Some days he thinks it’s grief, or joy, but most of the time it feels like fear.

Things are changing, though, little by little. It’s all so gradual that John barely notices. Slowly, Sebastian starts becoming more and more . . . John isn’t sure how he’d describe it. Sebastian becomes more like himself. Like he’s always been, but more so. He’s less cautious than he was when they met.

John hadn’t noticed it at the time, but for the first few months of their uneasy alliance, Sebastian took very few risks. If John mentioned once that something bothered him, Sebastian would never act agreeable, but would never do it again. He was quiet, knocked on doors, only pushed in certain situations. John imagines he learned caution-that-doesn’t-look-like-caution quite soon after meeting Moriarty. 

He hums more, sometimes singing under his breath. John can’t imagine anyone making much noise around Moriarty. Well, anyone who isn’t Sherlock. He starts laughing louder, too, particularly when he’s surprised. He barks out a loud “Ha!” and chuckles low in the back of this throat, barely smiling but eyes glinting like knifepoints. It’s an addictive and unsettling sound, and John starts looking for ways to catch him off guard. 

A few weeks after the return from Brazil, he starts singing aloud when he thinks John is in his room. John walks in on him cleaning his rifle, one earphone in, tapping bare heels in rhythm against the floor.

“Oy! You hurt, or something? What are you wailing for?”

“Fuck off, Johnny. It’s Stairway to Heaven.”

“So _you_ say. I’m serious. The point of headphones is that you can listen to something without disturbing the whole fucking neighborhood.”

“If I had a working stereo, I wouldn’t need the fucking things.”

John sighs and sets his book down before crossing to the bookshelf.

“You’ve a stereo right-- What the hell happened to it?”

“Jim shot it.”

“Of course he did.”

 

They still fight, when they need to, but that doesn’t seem to happen as often as it did Before Brazil. He always thinks of it in capital letters: Before Brazil. John still finds relief in the feeling of knuckle on flesh, but is finding more satisfaction in the moments after, cleaning wounds and soothing twisted joints. There’s something intoxicating about being the one to both cause and relieve these small, contained, injuries. He catches himself one night taking too much time cleaning a cut on Sebastian’s temple, just above his eyebrow. His mind is a blank, focused on the very tips of his fingers and the cloth as it touches split skin. After a few long minutes in near-stillness, Sebastian shifts underneath his hands, wide, dark eyes darting across John’s face. _How does he look so young?_ John marvels. Something in the set of his jaw, the curve of his lips. Sherlock had it, too, at times. Sebastian is far from that unearthly beauty, but there’s still something . . . John is torn between kissing him and hitting him again, so he compromises and pulls away, throwing the filthy cloth into the sink and letting the door swing shut behind him.

 

A few days later, John is carrying a laundry basket full of clean sheets thorough the living room as Sebastian sits bent double in the armchair, taking apart an old pay-by-the-minute mobile, looking for clues anywhere he can think of. 

They’ve been stalled since killing Lopes, nearly three months, but John can’t make himself feel anything about the delay. One moment it will feel like a year has passed since they’d had a break, then he will blink and feel completely out of joint, like it’s November, like he’s just met Sebastian and isn’t quite sure what to think.  If he asks himself directly, the most important thing in his life is finding Sherlock. It still is. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s May and he’s barely done a thing to help find him. He wonders vaguely if being shut up in the house all day is driving him mad, but he can’t seem to muster the energy to mind.

Sometimes he’ll say something to that effect just to watch Sebastian’s face twitch and settle into studied unconcern. 

“It’ll come,” Sebastian says shortly, every time. “We’re getting there.” He goes out during the day and sometimes comes back with blood on the hem of his T-shirt, chunks ripped out of his hair. A few of those days have resulted in a triumphant gleam in his eye and some knew piece of cryptic information to add to the slowly growing pile. More often, though, he greets John with a short shake of the head and drops onto the sofa to clean his rifle in silence until John either pushes him onto his back or kicks him onto the floor.

John isn’t paying attention, this morning, complaining inside his head about the inconvenience of a basement laundry room. Sebastian declared that since John came first the night before--and was the only one bleeding that night--he had to wash the sheets. John whirls around to make some argument at the exact moment Sebastian sits up, cracking his head into the swinging basket. The cut, which hadn’t been given much time to heal, splits open and Sebastian drops back in the chair with an annoyed grunt. John sets the basket on the coffee table and reaches out to him.

“Sorry.”

Sebastian grabs his wrist before he can make contact.

“Don’t,” he bites out, eyes flashing.

“What?”

“Don’t. Apologize.”

“All right.” John retrieves his hand and straightens up.

“We don’t do-- Just don’t start that. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Sebastian leans back in the chair, stretching his feet out in front of him. John waits a moment, then leans down and snatches one of his ankles, yanking as hard as he can before Sebastian can react. Sebastian slides off the chair to crash onto the floor, arse-first, feet flailing and kicking over the laundry basket. Soiled sheets tumble out onto the floor, so John kneels to gather them up, grinning broadly.

“Ow!” Sebastian bellows through a scowling smile. “Fuck! My fucking arse!”

“If you insist,” John mutters, leaving the laundry, grabbing him by the belt loops, and flipping him onto his stomach. Sebastian barks out one of those unsettling laughs and squirms. John rucks up the back of his shirt and bites at the bumps of his spine. 

“Fuck you, Johnny!” Sebastian yelps, but he doesn’t move away and arches his back to give John greater access to his skin. John chuckles into his back, darting his tongue across a thin line of scars at his hip. Sebastian reaches one hand underneath himself to pluck at his belt, starting to growl low in the back of his throat. Just as John starts to move higher, sinking his teeth lightly into the back of his neck to hear him groan, they are interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

Sebastian freezes and John curses into the back of his shirt.

“Get in the back room,” Sebastian whispers, muscles pulling tight as he raises himself onto his hands. John rolls off him and silently steals into the kitchen, where he can see the door but still remain mostly hidden. 

“Johnny!” Sebastian hisses. “All the way back. Bedroom. They can’t see you--”

“I’m your fucking backup, Sebastian. Open the damn door.” He reaches under the sink to grab one of Sebastian’s “emergency” handguns. He’s never asked why they need a revolver duct taped to the pipes, but he’s glad of it now. Sebastian straightens his clothes and moves next to the door, pressing himself against the wall and listening through the crack.

“I know you’re in there, Seb. I heard you shouting,” an unfamiliar voice calls, high pitched, petulant, and vaguely Welsh. “Come on, let me in. It smells like dog balls out here.”

John tenses and steadies the revolver, but Sebastian relaxes and sighs. He opens the door, blocking John’s view of both him and the visitor.

“Mburu, how the fuck did you get my address?”

“I have my ways,” the man singsongs. John cranes his neck but can’t see around the door.

“What the fuck do you want?” Sebastian doesn’t sound concerned, just irritated. “I was kind of in the middle of something.”

“That can wait. You’re going to want what I’ve got.”

“What?” Sebastian steps back into the room, holding one palm out to John, freezing him in place. He flicks his eyes towards the kitchen once with a tiny shake of his head. “After how many months? What can you possibly have?”

“I’ve got a message,” the man says gleefully, still concealed. “Miss Scarlet says hello.”


	13. The One and Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mburu attempts to stick to his list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while. I love you dearly.  
> Please heed warnings.  
> And I hope you don't mind Mburu too much. He's fun.

Sebastian waves John back as he leads the stranger into the room. John sinks back so his view is blocked by the refrigerator, uncomfortably squeezed next to the counter. He hopes the growling of his stomach doesn't give him away as the scent of slowly browning bananas wafts down from the top of the refrigerator. He can see Sebastian relatively well, and would recognize the look of exasperated distaste from a mile away. It’s exactly the face he makes when he watches John eat cream cheese wontons or do the crossword.

“Hey, nice digs,” Mburu says, and John catches a glimpse of him as her turns around in the living room, bright green windbreaker jacket and closely cropped black hair setting off a ridiculously large pair of ears.

Sebastian crosses his arms. “How the _fuck_ do you know where I live?”

Mburu stops looking around the room and shrugs. “My auntie works in the chemist’s on the corner.”

“What?”

“My auntie Ruth. She works in that Boots down the street. Says you come in a lot. Remember you met her once, when you were staying at mine?”

Sebastian drops onto the couch. “Fuck.” He groans and tips his head back, and John can see Mburu’s knees as he settles himself in the empty chair. 

“I have to move, now, don’t I? Fuck, I don’t want to move.”

“She wouldn’t tell anybody, Seb. She’s old. She doesn’t even talk to the customers anymore, ‘cause she thinks everyone under thirty-five is going to rob the shop and everyone over thirty-five is a-- I don’t know, government agent or something. I think. She’s got false teeth now, so it’s hard to underst--”

“What’s the message?”

“Hmm?”

“The message. The message from Miss Scarlet.”

“Oh, that. Wait a second, I’ve got a list.” The man roots around in his jacket pocket for a moment, and spreads a crumpled sheet of notebook paper across his knees.

“Okay. Auntie. Check. Next is--”

“Just get to the point.”

“No, I have to do the other messages first, while you’re paying attention, otherwise you’ll throw me out and--”

Sebastian rises menacingly. “Mburu--”

“I’ll be quick, I promise.” His speech speeds up as he starts to read. “Carter and Korloff are dead, Marshall is missing. No one’s seen him in weeks, and his car’s just _sitting_ there. So. I don’t know, if he isn’t coming back it’s a shame to just let it sit there, rusting, I mean it’s been pretty wet lately. So someone should take care of it. Or maybe just ‘til he gets back. You know. Like a favor. Shame to let it go to waste--you know how much ass he’s been getting since--”

“Anthony. How much do you think I care about Marshall’s car?”

“Um,” the man shuffles with his paper. “Since Moriarty’s gone, we were all thinking that you were the—”  
“No.”  
There is a strained silence and neither man moves.  
“Right,” Mburu says, clearing his through. “Um. Okay.”  
“Mburu.” John can see Sebastian’s fingers tapping impatient triplets against the arm of the couch.  
Mburu clears his throat again and raises his voice. “Item two. Sheila.” _  
_He waits a moment and leans forward. John can see the side of his face, bushy eyebrows raised and ridiculous ears practically perked up from his head. Sebastian stares blankly at him.

“Sheila,” Mburu says again, significantly. Sebastian blinks.

“What?”

“You know. _Sheila_.” He makes a lewd gesture in front of his own chest and grinning. Sebastian wrinkles his nose.

Mburu drops his hands, disappointed. “You know, the girl you were fu--”

“I know who Sheila is,” Sebastian says bluntly. “I’m waiting for you to get to a point.”

“Oh. Okay. Um.” Mburu scrambles with Sebastian’s lack of response, twisting the paper in his hands. “She’s something, right? I remember when she came in, you know, God, that arse, that was the first thing-- You know, she was with Marshall the first time. The fucking car, I’m telling you. It’s like-- That is a car the defies the laws of science. _And_ religion. Definitely religion. ‘Cause if God decreed that all the pussy in the greater London area would fucking _migrate_ to the owner of that one fucking car, like, there would be some kind of commandment about it. Commandment. That’s the-- Yeah, definitely the work of the devil. That is Satan-- That has Satan all over it. That’s what Auntie would say, and she knows-- she knows from Satan--”

“Fuck’s sake, Mburu--”

“So Sheila, right? Sheila. I saw Sheila the other day and she said to tell you that she’s sorry for all the-- I mean after you snatched her up, right-- Ha ha-- She was like, _off the table_ , man. For anybody. Anyway, she says she’s sorry for the whole--”

Sebastian makes to interrupt and Mburu holds up his hands.

“That whole thing. The lying thing. You know. You know, lots of girls do that. Pretend to be pregnant. I think. I’ve heard; I think I’ve heard. Get panicky. She says she just panicked but now she says she’ll take you back. She says she forgives you for the . . .” He trails of and does a little shadow-box move. “Pow pow pow. Thing.”

He falls silent and Sebastian stares at him.

“You done?” 

Mburu nods.

“Not interested. What’s the fucking message?”

“Come _on_ man, she won’t even _look_ at anybody else anymore. That is a valuable natural resource going completely to waste. That is a shame, a humanitarian fucking _crisis_.”

“Anthony--”

“Anyway, now that Jim’s gone there’s really no reason . . .”

Mburu trails off and John can see Sebastian’s hand tighten into a fist. Mburu splutters.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with, you know. I mean, equal rights and all that--”

Sebastian moves forward, menacingly, and Mburu shrinks back.

“Okay, okay.”

“Not. Interested.”

Mburu twists the paper until it starts to tear, looking anywhere but at Sebastian. “What if . . . What if she came herself? You know, to apologize. To make it up to you. No reason to turn into some monk or something, just cause Jim’s d--”

“Do not give her this address.”

Mburu is silent, looking down at his feet.

Sebastian catches him with a solid right hook to the cheek and he slumps back against the chair. 

“Fuck’s _sake_ Mburu! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I was doing you a favor,” the little man whines. “That’s what friends do. No need to let your dick rot off from neglect, just ‘cause you’ve got some hangup on--”

“I should shoot you right now. Now I’ve got to fucking move; I don’t have time for this shit. Who else knows where I live?”

“No one!”

Sebastian lashes out again, grabbing him by the overlarge ear and slamming his head into the arm of the chair.

“Fuck!” Mburu shrinks back into the chair, clutching the side of his head. “No one! I told you! God, that was uncalled for.”

“I’m not fucking around, Anthony.”

“I’m not either. Holy fucking dog balls, Seb. What the fuck happened to you?”

Sebastian blinks at him for a moment, then huffs a bit of a laugh and rises. He rubs his fingertips over his eyes and up into his hair, ruffling it absentmindedly as he begins to speak, very quietly. John leans in as far as he dares, straining to hear.

“Anthony?”

“Yeah?” Mburu stays tucked into the chair, arms folded defensively across his chest.

“I have a message for you to bring to Sheila. Can you do that?”

“Yeah. Sure, yeah, of course. That’s me, that’s what I’m here for. Just call me-- fuck, what’s his name? The wings on the feet? Was that Mars? No. Fuck. _Fuck_ , that’s going to bother me--”

“Anthony.” Sebastian’s voice even and just barely short of patient. “I have a message.”

“Right. Right. Shoot.”

Sebastian flashes a grin. “You tell her this. If I see her coming anywhere near this place, anywhere within, say, a quarter of a mile. I see her, I hear somebody saw her anywhere around here, I put a bullet right between her eyes. She knows I can do it. I won’t even have to leave my couch.”

Mburu’s eyes widen, and he nods.

“Same goes for you,” Sebastian continues. “I ever see you again . . .” He points a finger a the center of Mburu’s forehead, and Mburu freezes. Sebastian holds him there for a long moment before whispering, “Bang.” 

Mburu jumps in spite of himself, and Sebastian snorts.

“Okay. Scarlet,” he says abruptly. “That’s China.”

“Shanghai. Yeah.” Mburu swallows and straightens up in the chair. “Liu Qing. I think you maybe worked with her?”

“Once, yeah. Did a job or two with her brother. I didn’t know she was running things.”

“We didn’t even have a full branch in China until a few years back. Or so I’ve heard. Carter was saying there was always something going on, but they weren’t telling us about it. I don’t know. She sent this to-- You don’t need to know that. It got to me, but it’s meant for you.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s got your name on, doesn’t it? Actually, it’s addressed to two of you. Moran and Flynn.”

Sebastian pounces, grabbing Mburu by the shirtfront and slamming him up against the wall, forearm solid across his throat.

“What the _fuck_ do you know about Flynn?” he growls, teeth practically bared an inch from Mburu’s face.

Mburu squeaks and kicks feebly until Sebastian eases the pressure.

“Nothing!” he howls, snot starting to run down to his upper lip.  “Nothing nothing nothing I swear to Holy Ma Mary I know nothing more than anybody else I don’t even know if there _is_ a Flynn, I don’t even know if he’s a _guy_ , I just assumed--”

“Mburu--”

“For all I know he’s a-- a made up guy, you know, a bedtime story. I don’t know _nothing_ Seb I _swear_ \--”

“Mburu, calm the fuck down.” Sebastian releases him and he stumbles forward. “Sit down, stop squawking.”

Mburu sits, slowly. Sebastian blows out a long breath and considers him.

“What do you know about Flynn?” he asks, calmly. “What do you think you know?”

“Nothing. Just a name going around, nobody knows anything. New guy? Moran and Flynn, that’s all people are saying. The base in São Paulo got toasted, people are saying Moran and Flynn.”

“Who’s people?”

“Nobody. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I don’t know, I don’t care, and nobody’s asking. Except you.”

Sebastian nods. 

“Johnny,” he calls. “We’ve got a visitor.”

John feels a bit embarrassed as he straightens up from behind the refrigerator. He tucks the gun back under the sink and steps out into the living room.

“No. Fucking. Way,” Mburu says flatly as he turns to face John. 

John raises an eyebrow at Sebastian who shrugs.

“Anthony Mburu, Johnny Flynn. Johnny, this is Mburu.”

“So I guessed,” John says, nodding at the stunned man. Mburu has an unsettling, rat-like face up close, with thin lips that constantly move, even when he is silent. 

He’s looking between John and Sebastian now, mouth working furiously. “But he’s-- I mean, we know him-- Right? We--”

“Forget it,” Sebastian commands, and he falls silent. “Don’t ask, and we won’t have to kill you.”

John gives him a rueful smile. “Nice to meet you. Message from China?”

“Yes. Right.” Mburu reaches into his windbreaker and pulls out a folded manila envelope. The corners are frayed and it’s obviously been opened and closed a number of times. He hands it to Sebastian, and John leans in to look at the outside.  
“Who’s Olivia Lake?” he asks, reading the neatly stamped address.

“Nobody. Like I say, it’s been passed around a bit.”

“It says ‘Do Not Bend.’”

“And?” Mburu asks as Sebastian unfolds the envelope and attempts to smooth out the crease.

“Never mind.”

Sebastian pulls out a few sheets of paper and passes the empty envelope to John. John examines it for a moment, but finds nothing that out of the ordinary. He shoots a glance over at Sebastian, whose nose is wrinkled in disgust.

“What the _fuck_ is--”

“I know!” Mburu says, throwing up his hands. “I’m just the messenger, here.”

Sebastian flips through the papers, which John can now see are eight by ten inch photographs. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sebastian breathes, blinking hard. Johnny . . .”

He passes them over, and it takes John a moment to recognize what he’s seeing. The top photograph is a close-up of what is probably a man’s face. John can’t see features very clearly, as the skin is bruised and blackened mostly beyond recognition. His hair is cropped unevenly and jaw shifted awkwardly to one side. The part of the image that John cannot seem to look away from are the bloody, chewed-up spaces where the man’s eyes should be. 

“My God,” he whispers, looking over at Sebastian. 

“Who is it?” Sebastian asks. 

Mburu shrugs. “Can’t tell for certain. Liu’s brother’s been missing, though.”

“Chen? Christ, that’s Liu Chen?” Sebastian takes the photo from John and examines more closely. “He was the dancer?”

“Dancing man,” Mburu grins. “Always talking about this club or that one, this girl and that girl and his ‘moves,’ you know. Smooth operator.”

“He is not looking so good. Eh, Johnny?”

John doesn’t respond; he’s distracted by the last two photographs. Both are full-body shots, only a slight difference in angle. Liu is stretched out flat on the ground, naked and almost entirely discolored with bruises and scrapes. There are a few deep-looking cuts to his abdomen and the outsides of his thighs, and his groin is an indistinguishable mass of blackened, bloody flesh.

“All cuts, though. No burns. Most likely not Qing, then. She likes burns.” Sebastian and Mburu are still talking but John can hardly hear them over the buzz in his ears. The man’s feet are gone, cut off at the ankles. They have been placed, standing upright with bloody stumps showing, on the ground next to the body. The hands--when the body was still pliable, probably ( _Oh God,_ John thinks, _while still alive?_ )--have been placed around the ankles, gripping tightly. 

“He’s holding his own feet,” John says blankly. “He is holding on to his own--”

“Hey,” Sebastian looks sharply at him. John shakes his head and hands back the photographs.

“That is-- That is fucked. Whatever it is, whoever it is. That is not right.” He closes his eyes for a moment, but the image of disembodied feet flashes up on his eyelids. “Fuck. Who was it? Wasn’t us.”

“Don’t know,” Mburu says. “Nasty, though.”

“I don’t understand,” John says. “There nothing about us on the envelope--”

“Here.” Sebastian holds out one of the full-body photos. John can’t help but stare at the body, the empty eye-sockets and the feet, but Sebastian points to the floor beside the body. Sitting just beyond a pool of blood are two large envelopes, one next to the other. _Mr. Flynn_ and _Mr. Moran_ are printed in large letters in felt-tip, with no other markings visible.

“Do you have these with you?” John asks Mburu.

Mburu shakes his head. “No, this is all I have.” The men are silent for a long moment, and Mburu looks back and forth between them and the photographs, awkwardly. “Sorry,” he blurts out finally, then falls silent again.

Sebastian sits on the couch and spreads the photos out on the cushion beside him. John moves to join him but stops and turns back to Mburu.

“Thanks, Mr. Mburu. We appreciate it.”

Mburu grins. “‘Mr. Mburu.’ Don’t bother with that. You can just call me--”

“Goodbye, Anthony,” Sebastian calls, not looking up. Mburu shuts his mouth and nods once, rubbing the bruise now forming on his temple.

“So long, Sebastian. Oh, shit, there was one more.”

Sebastian looks up. “One more what?”

“That was the last message. From Moriarty.”

“From Jim?”

“Yeah. He came by a couple weeks before, you know, _Bang_. Said to tell you ‘So long, Sebastian. John fifteen fifteen.’”

“We know that already,” John says impatiently. Mburu holds up his hands.

“That’s all I got. No idea what it means.” He gives Sebastian a bit of a wave, but Sebastian doesn’t seem to notice, staring off into space. “So long, then,” Mburu says. “I’ll just go . . . you know . . . let myself out.” 

John kneels next to the couch to examine the photographs, and doesn’t look up when he hears the door slam shut. 

“So that’s Mburu,” he says softly, turning on photo over to study the back.

“The one and only. Thank God.”

“Was all that true?”

“All what?”

“‘Pow pow pow’?” John looks up at him, and he looks surprised. “Sheila?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a-- Well. A bit not good. More than a bit.”

“Ah, she deserved it. Dancing man, on the other hand.” He trails a finger down the line of Liu’s leg, shaking his head. “What do you think, tomorrow?”

“For what?”

“Shanghai.”

John gapes. “We’re going to Shanghai? This is your first response when you see a mutilated corpse? ‘Oh, sure, I want to go there.’”

“You want to find Holmes, don’t you?”

“You think he--”

“Trust me, if it got from China to _Mburu_ , everyone and their grandmother’s seen them. If Holmes is looking where we are, he’d have seen them. He probably knows me-- Hell, he’d better know me or he’s not nearly as good as you all say. He’ll be looking for the same thing we are.”

“But whoever did this-- Doesn’t it seem a bit, I don’t know, insane to go after them directly? Charge right in, guns blazing?”

"Doesn't have to be guns blazing. Just poke around a bit, see what we can find."

"That's not much of a plan."

Sebastian grins at him, then claps him on the shoulder. “Suicide mission, remember?” He rises and crosses to the kitchen, scratching his sides. “God, I need coffee. This is too much shit without coffee. You eat yet?”

John stares after him. “Not very hungry, actually.”

Sebastian shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

John slides the photographs back into the envelope and listens to the familiar sounds of Sebastian cooking eggs in the other room. He’s cracked six, which means he’s either hungrier than usual or he’s making enough for both of them. Probably the latter. Sure enough, by the time he’s finished John’s stomach has started growling again. He drops the envelope onto the card table and sighs before heading into the kitchen to take the offered plate. 

The corner of Sebastian’s mouth curls up, but he says nothing.

 

Around the corner and a few blocks away, a sleek black car pulls into an alley, blocking the path of an odd little man in a bright green windbreaker. The door opens and a voice calls, “Get in, Mr. Mburu. We’d like to have a bit of a chat.”

The man stares around wildly, then sighs, resigned. He crosses himself, spits on the sidewalk for luck and climbs into the car.


	14. Ghosts and Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shanghai begins. The pair learn little about the mysterious Lius, but considerably more about each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the love of God, heed warnings.

Liu Qing is not a completely unfamiliar name. She’s been mentioned in notes and addendums, even on an odd voice recording that Sebastian found tucked away on an out-of-service mobile: forty-five seconds of Moriarty trying to pronounce her name and then giggling. 

“You know her?” John looks up from the stack of re-sorted data. Anything mentioning China, Liu, and--to be safe--anything red is haphazardly piled in front of him. It’s just past midnight, and it looks like neither of them will be sleeping. Sebastian’s forehead has been wrinkled in concentration for hours now, squinting at page after page, mouth moving silently. He hasn’t complained, declining John’s offer of a beer and doggedly working his way through stacks of documents. John wants to say something, thank him maybe, but wisely decides to stay quiet.

They fly to Shanghai on no sleep with a battered vinyl briefcase full of ideas and connections. The nearly twelve hour flight plus time difference puts them in Shanghai in the early afternoon, though John can’t quite keep track of the day. Neither of them sleep well on planes, particularly together. John wakes Sebastian at least six times, jolting upright and scanning the surroundings in a breathless panic. Sebastian keeps John awake for three hours jiggling his knee against the armrest, stopping for only a few minutes each time John elbows him or punches his leg.  

They have one address, a featureless apartment complex that looks like it came off an assembly line sometime in the 1970s. Under the address, which is attached to an assassination report, Moriarty has scrawled, _TWO BY TWO, ALL THE WAY DOWN._ They glance at each other before buzzing the front door.

“So what’s the plan?”

“You have your gun?” 

John pats his new shoulder-holster. Sebastian does the same. He complained about missing his rifle, but has to admit that these new handguns pack quite a punch.

“So we knock on doors.”

John sighs as an elderly voice crackles over the intercom. “Canvassing. In Chinese. If DI Lestrade could see me now.”

Sebastian mumbles a few words and the door buzzes open.

“You speak Mandarin?” John asks, following him inside.

“Enough to sound brain damaged, anyway. People are pretty good to you if they think you have brain damage. You can get away with a lot.”

“There are so many issues with everything you say. You know that, right?” John blinks after him in the sudden dark of the lobby.

“And yet,” Sebastian spins around to grin at him, “here we are. Inside.”

John snorts and shakes his head, gesturing for Sebastian to lead on.

The afternoon is a complete bust. Twelve stories--and a blessed elevator--with eight flats a piece, and no one willing to talk. They argue at first about what “Two by Two” means--every other apartment? Those with twos in their number? Did Moriarty assume that Sebastian would be working with someone, going “Two by Two” by default? So they end up starting on the 12th floor and knocking on each door as they pass, holding a blurry CCTV photo of Liu Qing and repeating her name and her brother’s looking for a reaction. Sebastian tries to mumble some of his brain-damaged Mandarin, which three old men find hilarious. They get nothing but confusion, a few Nos, some slammed doors, and one student excited to practice his English. 

He knows nothing, apparently, and tells them that “We don’t know  the people here. The people in the house? We don’t talk.”

“Okay. Thanks for your--”

John is interrupted by the arrival of a solidly built man, about his age and smoking a foul-smelling cigarette, who appears at the boy’s shoulder. They exchange rapid Chinese for a moment before he looks up at John in surprise.

“No,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“No Liu Qing. Do not ask.”

“You know her? You’ve seen her?” Sebastian elbows the door open farther, half-stepping inside.

The man mutters something to his son who looks disturbed.

“He says this is too big. You need to go now. You don’t--” The man speaks again. “You don’t understand what you are doing. Go now.” The boy steps back and lets the man push them out into the hallway. Sebastian looks like he wants to fight, but John grabs his arm and pulls him away.

They look at each other as the elevator takes them back to the ground floor. 

“Basement?” Sebastian asks.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Sebastian leans his head against the steel wall, leaving a streak of sweat behind. “Fuck, I need sleep.”

“You know the word for ‘hotel’?” 

“I think so. Come on, let’s see how fast we can get a cab. And something to eat. Christ.” He rubs his eyes and pushes off the wall and out. John follows.

“Something to eat is good. Best plan of the day.”

Sebastian half-heartedly slugs him in the shoulder, leaving his hand there as they walk out into the afternoon sun.

  


John falls into a daze over a late lunch and wakes up three hours later in an alarmingly grey hotel room. The walls and carpets are grey, the bedspread and sheets, the light fixtures, even the towels are grey.

“Seb?” he mumbles, scrubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up.

“Hmm?” Sebastian starts awake from his position on the floor next to the bed. 

“The fuck are you doing down there?”

Sebastian rises and cracks his neck. “I screwed up the Chinese. Double bed instead of double room. Doesn’t matter.”

John stares at him. “It’s a double bed, Sebastian.” When he doesn’t reply, John sighs and gets up, stretching.

“Okay,” he says, shaking out his arms. “Okay. So. Qing’s involved in something, right? She’s not on her own, anyway, if she’s not the one that killed her brother.”

Sebastian groans and drops down onto the bed. “I don’t know. I don’t know! I fucking _hate_ this part. Give me something to shoot. Just fucking point me in the right direction. This is Jim’s department.”

“And Sherlock’s. Hang on.” John crosses to the door, where Sebastian’s shoes are kicked against the wall. “You went out.”

“What? No.”

“You did, you went out while I was sleeping.”

“ _I_ was asleep to, right on the--”

“Come over here.”

Sebastian doesn’t move. John crosses to the bed and leans over him.

“You smell like smoke.”

“I went out for a fag, what’s the--”

“This isn’t your brand. Smells different. I know you wouldn’t need to buy more, because you have an entire carton at home and you never travel with fewer than three packs. If you’d forgotten to pack them you’d have been even worse on the flight over.”

“Johnny--” 

John holds up his hand. He feels strange, like his voice doesn’t belong to him, but he lets it go.

“So whose smoke is that? Obviously the man from the apartment building. If you’d gotten something out of him, you’d have told me right away, woken me up. So you went back for nothing. But you haven’t been asleep long, either. You slept on your jacket, but your face is mostly unlined--you haven’t been there long. It took us fifteen minutes to get here by cab, walking would take you maybe a half hour. So that’s at most an hour there and back. Give me your hands.”

“What? Why?”

John grabs his wrists impersonally, towering over him with what feels like five extra inches. He smells the palms, then licks lightly at the webbing between his first and middle fingers.

“Soap. No one ever rinses this part very well. You’ve been scrubbing.”

“John--”

“Is he dead?” John stares Sebastian in the face, almost indifferent. “Did you kill him?”

There is a long pause.

“No.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing useful. I asked about ‘Two by Two,’ he said something about doubles. He started going on about ‘I see nothing. I live here, only live here, I don’t want to know.’ Then he said something like, ‘There are two, and no one sees them. You see the reflection,’ and that was all I could understand. The boy was gone, so there wasn’t a lot of English.”

“‘There are two, and no one sees them’?” John muses. “‘Reflection.’ Referencing Qing and Chen, perhaps? Were they twins?”

“No. He was a scrawny little thing, real delicate looking. She’s got to be six feet at least, and built.”

John paces, thinking, hands playing together under his chin. “Which means we’re missing something. The man is inconsequential, just a bystander. It’s unlikely he knows more than what he told you. If another Englishman had been poking around, he’d have mentioned it, so no Sherlock yet.”

“What _did_ he tell me?”

“We’re dealing with more than Liu Qing, that’s for sure. She’s involved in something else. Or maybe she isn’t, actually. Chen was involved in something and that got him chopped up. Something bigger than the straggling edges of your little club, Mr. Moriarty. Something efficient and deadly. Something that burnt the restaurant in São Paulo, and the house, too. Either that or we’re dealing with two rogue organizations, which seems somewhat too coincidental to be likely. So we are dealing with someone, or some group of someones, represented by ‘Two’ or ‘doubles’ or ‘reflections,’ capable of the murder of Liu Chen.”

Sebastian smiles slowly. “Technically, anyone would be _capable_.”

John raises and eyebrow and continues. “What do you think? Drugs? Chinese government? Mafia? We already met the Black Lotus once. We’ll have to wait for more data.”

Sebastian looks at him expectantly, and John feels his bravado begin to falter.

“What do you think?” he says again, voice just a fraction softer.

“Well,” Sebastian begins after an impressed pause. He unfolds from the bed with an almost feline roll of his spine. His voice is higher than usual, a bit of a drawl, like he’s rolling the words around in his mouth before letting them go. “If you want to look at it the _simple_ way, that makes sense.”

His head rolls loosely on his neck and a terrifyingly easy smile spreads over his face.

“But you always miss the important parts, don’t you? My dear.”

John takes an unconscious step back, and Sebastian grins. With both sides of his mouth, teeth bared in a friendly menace.

“It couldn’t be _Sherlock_ ”--John shivers at the sound of the name in that voice-- “Of course it isn’t. He’s too decent, isn’t he? Bit old fashioned, when you think about it. I try not to.”

Sebastian’s hands have slipped into his pockets and his shoulders fall, thrusting his chin up just a fraction. He shifts his weight between his feet, not like a nervous man, but like a man who doesn’t really care whether or not he stays upright.

“But they cut off his feet. He was the Dancing Man and they cut off his feet.”

And he giggles, a high bubbling sound that sends a shock up John’s spine.

“Stop.”

“So what does that tell us? All together, now. It’s someone who knows him. That’s simple. Someone who knows him and wanted him dead. One of us, perhaps. Someone inside the organization. Smugglers and cartels and all that extra . . . stuff. That’s all distraction. White noise.” He hisses quietly, between his teeth.

“Sebastian--”

“Doubles, you see? Doubles and reflections and puzzles. Reflections and ghosts. We haven’t been burning fast enough; the web has already turned on itself.” He saunters over to the bedside table, picking up John’s gun and turning it in his hands. “Someone _inside_ is trying to get _out_. And all the secrets, all the connections and the truths are wrapped up in the brain in the head of the snake.”

“You?” John asks.

Sebastian flashes him a frighteningly genuine smile.

“Me! Yes, I suppose that’s me. Everything wrapped up in a nice neat package. A nice package surrounded by white noise.”

He smiles at John again, softly, then slides the barrel of the gun almost obscenely into his mouth and cocks it.

John stops breathing. Sebastian doesn’t let go of his eyes. 

Sebastian’s fingers tighten and release with each inhale and exhale. John’s focus on them is so intense that he is lulled into a daze by the play of tension and release, in and out. 

Sebastian jerks his wrist, head flying back. John can’t shut his eyes, lurches forward without a plan, confused little vocalizations bursting up the back of his throat.

Sebastian looks at him, grin firmly back on the side of his face, gun barrel shiny with saliva.

“ _Bang_ ,” he whispers.

John teeters a bit, caught off-balance in his aborted lunge forward, gasping unapologetically. He grabs Sebastian by the shirt collar and pulls him into the bathroom.

“Stay here.” John goes back into the main room, where a small refrigerator buzzes in the corner. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes out his arms, feeling something crawling up his spine, then pulls out a large bottle of water and brings it to the bathroom.

“Rinse,” he says, opening the bottle and handing it to Sebastian. Sebastian doesn’t seem surprised, just takes a mouthful and swishes it around in his mouth. John takes him by the back of the neck and pushes him down towards the sink. 

“Spit,” he commands, and Sebastian does. He repeats the pattern over and over, rinse and spit. When John is satisfied, he releases his neck and allows him to rise, picking up a washcloth. 

Sebastian waits for orders, not flinching as John soaps and wets the cloth, carefully waiting for the tap to run warm. He scrubs Sebastian’s face quickly and clinically, telling him when to close his eyes and mouth, gently tracing his lips, the thin scar on his forehead, the flare of his nose. He rinses it, moving Sebastian’s head with one hand on his chin. He picks at the neck of the now-damp T-shirt, and Sebastian pulls it over his head.

John takes a moment to just look at him, Sebastian’s chin rising defiantly to mask his discomfort. 

“What is this?” John asks, running a corner of the cloth along the edge of the longest scar. Sebastian looks down, as though his chest belongs to someone else, and just smiles.

“Jim?” John asks, quietly, and Sebastian smiles wider.

“I would have expected-- I don’t know. Initials? Some sort of brand?”

Sebastian smiles again. “He said this was more . . . what? ‘Este--’ No, what’s the word? ‘Isthec--?’”

“Aesthetic?” 

“‘Aesthetically interesting,’ he said. Much more interesting.”

They fall silent, and John’s cloth scrubs gently over the wide ridges in his skin. They are, he has to admit it, ugly things. The scar on his forehead could almost pass for dashing but these are wasteland, bombstrike, infection. Sebastian shivers as a trail of soapy water drips down his stomach, soaking into the waistband of his trousers.

“Why?” John asks, as he begins to work gradually firmer circles across Sebastian’s chest.

“He told me once,” Sebastian begins after a long silence. “That if we lived back-- ‘back in the day,’ I guess. Whatever he meant. He said I’d be some kind of . . . I don’t know. It was stupid.”

“Tell me the story,” John coaxes, not looking him in the eye. Both men follow the path of soapy water across scarred flesh, each feeling the chill as it dries.

“I don’t really like stories.”

John re-wets the rag, starting at the ridge of Sebastian’s shoulders and rinsing soap down his chest.

“Tell me.”

Sebastian thinks for a moment, tongue moving behind his lips as he chooses his words.

“He said-- What did he say? He said, ‘Back in the old times, Sebastian, back when people were gentlemen and no one asked questions, I think I know what you would be.’ And I said, ‘What?’ And he said something like ‘You’d be one of those big-game hunters. Those hunters with--’ How did he say it? ‘With bear skin rugs and a-- a tantalizing collection of interesting scars.’ That’s what he said.”

John drops to his knees and places the cloth on the edge of the tub, slowly opening Sebastian’s belt.

“I said, ‘Do you think so?’” Sebastian continues, watching John’s hands. “Which is a stupid thing to say. But I said, ‘Do you think so?’ and he laughed at me and he said, ‘No, you’d be the same fucking nobody you are now. Worse, if I’m honest.’” Sebastian huffs a laugh and John slides his trousers and pants down his thighs. 

“And then I asked him, ‘What would you be? Would you be a gentleman?’ And he just looked at me.” He reaches out and catches John’s chin in his hand. John stills. “He was looking at my mouth, just staring, wouldn’t look away.” Sebastian slides his thumb along John’s lower lip, fascinated. “Wouldn’t look away, and that was when I thought I should-- Well. And he said, ‘No.’ He said, ‘I’d be a tiger. A Bengal tiger. And I’d have claws.’ And he started laughing. And I was thinking, to myself, _Just do it. Shut him up. Just grab him, touch him, anything. This is the only--_ ” He pulls his hand away from John’s face and runs it through his hair. “I guess I had too much . . . what? Sense of self-preservation? Survival instinct? So I said ‘okay’ and that was it.”

John picks up the cloth again, wets it and methodically works new lather out of the tiny bar of soap. As he turns back to Sebastian, almost clinically, he quietly says, “That’s not when he cut you.”

“No. That was later. After he’d decided to keep me, I guess.”

Sebastian isn’t quite hard, but as John runs cloth along his hips, scrubbing the ridges of the bones squeezing trails of water down his legs, he starts to see some reaction.

“He called me in after a job. I wasn’t sure, you know, if he was going to kill me or, I don’t know, give me a bonus. You couldn’t ever tell, when he’d call you in. And he just had me on my knees. Like you, now. On my knees in front of him.” 

John stops his work as Sebastian slides two fingers through his hair, tilting his head up. John meets his eyes, calm and expressionless.

“He said, ‘take off your shirt.’”

John’s hand goes immediately to the neck of his T-shirt, but he pauses there and waits for Sebastian to nod before pulling it over his head. Sebastian touches his scar softly, before digging his knuckles in. John grits his teeth but does not flinch.

“That’s good,” Sebastian whispers, and John cannot tell whose voice he is hearing.

“He asked me for my knife, and I gave it,” he holds out his hand. John hesitates a moment, then coaxes Sebastian’s feet up and out of the pile of clothing at his feet. He feels through the pockets and finds Sebastian’s switchblade, which he places solemnly on Sebastian’s palm. Sebastian flicks it open, a practiced twist of thumb and wrist, but John does not blink as it slices past his cheek. 

Sebastian tilts his head to the side and trails a finger down the side of John’s face. 

“He said ‘Don’t move.’ And that was it. Just leaned over and--”

He runs the knife down John’s chest, an odd crosshatching pattern that repeats five times and reaches around his waist. He never breaks the skin, completely, though he stops a few times to hover on the edge of pushing too far. When he finishes the last stripe, bent nearly double with his breath hot on the side of John’s neck, he flicks the blade and cuts a shallow line down to John’s hip. It’s barely deep enough to bleed, just one fat drop that gathers at the bottom of the cut and rolls down below John’s waistband. Sebastian straightens up and sticks the tip of the knife into his mouth, unconsciously.

“That’s bad for you, you know,” John says.

“It’s seen a lot of blood over the years. So have I. Won’t make much difference.”

“Why?” John asks, rinsing the cloth and going back to work on Sebastian’s groin. “Why not straight lines?”

“He didn’t want it to be clean. Didn’t want it to heal clean. Didn’t want it to heal at all, probably. Kept going back and opening it up. We had a doctor, one that belonged to him, so he’d stitch it and wrap it and send me home. And then Jim would be there to open me back up. The bandages I went through . . .”

John leans up and runs his fingers over the twisted, uneven lines. He lets his eyes fall closed and feels the ridges under his fingers like some dead language written in Braille. 

“Don’t pity me,” Sebastian says softly, and John opens his eyes. He looks so young. How can he look so young? The set of his jaw and the deliberate hardness around his eyes, the smooth skin between his scars? 

John swallows and turns back to his cloth. “I don’t.”

They are silent for a long moment as John works his way down Sebastian’s legs, water pooling on the linoleum and soaking into the knees of John’s trousers.

“Turn around,” John says quietly, standing.

Sebastian looks at him for a moment, blankly, then turns. John silently soaps his back and rinses it, no noise in the room but  the drip of water onto linoleum. Sebastian reaches his right arm out to press against the wall, dropping his head forward. John scrubs it, leaning in close so that they are nearly back-to-chest. When the arm is clean and rinsed, he drops to his knees again and soaps the lower back and buttocks. He works the cloth between them, holding the flesh apart with his fingers and scrubbing gently over the opening. Sebastian sucks a breath through his teeth. He is decidedly silent as John washes him, reaching down to the underside of he groin, scrubbing the crease of his thigh. He rinses and examines his handiwork, finally giving into temptation and licking at the puckered flesh. Sebastian’s thighs tense and he cranes his neck.

“The fuck was that?”

John doesn’t look at him. “The fuck do you think it was? Stay still.”

He leans in again, ignoring Sebastian’s vaguely distressed expression and licks more firmly, experimenting.

“Fuck,” Sebastian hisses, adjusting himself so his forehead can lean against the wall.

John feels a bit strange. This is not something that they do, but he can’t for the life of him remember why. Sebastian is panting now, hand curling into a fist against the wall.

“Fuck, Johnny. Jesus, fuck.”

John pulls back and rubs a soothing hand over the small of his back. 

“Have you ever--?”

“No,” Sebastian grits out, voice barely wavering. “Never.”

“Do you want--”  
“Yeah. Yes, yeah.”

John leans in again, leading with his tongue, hands sliding between Sebastian’s thighs and working him until he barks, “I said ‘yes,’ God dammit.”

John sits back on his heels and looks at him, all muscle and weathered skin and jagged edges and nothing fine or delicate or elegant. He supposes there’s a kind of blunt beauty there, like the feel of a solid punch or the sound of bullets entering flesh. Dark alleys. He runs his hands down strong legs, one callused heel off the floor, weight shifting.

“Shit.”

“What?” Sebastian turns around, chest and neck flushed, as hard as John’s ever seen him.

“Shit,” John says again, with feeling. “I don’t have anything. Condoms, anything.”

“Fuck it, I’m clean.” 

Sebastian pushes himself off the wall and tugs on John’s hair as he passes, making for the bed.

“Like hell you are.” John rises but doesn’t leave the bathroom.

“I am. I swear. Got tested every time I got in contact with blood. That was a lot.”

“Are you serious?”

“Jim was serious about it. I took that cocktail whatever, AZT, twice. Two bad knife wounds where the guy bled on me after. That stuff is hell, you know.”

“Jim made you get tested.” John leans against the door, eyebrows raised. Somehow his memory of the insane, giggling, scar-dealing murderer doesn’t include much concern for health.

“Disease is messy. Not the good kind of messy, the expensive, you know, wasteful kind of messy.”

John holds his eyes for a moment, looking for a challenge but not finding one. He sees his options in perfect balance. What he should do and what he knows he _will_ do. He crosses through the door and stands before Sebastian.

“All I have is lotion. This cheap stuff from the bathroom.”

“Don’t care.” Sebastian drops down onto the bed, shameless and hard with the crooked smile daring John to grab the bottle and kneel in front of him. He runs a finger over the scars, firmly, then between them, watching the skin go white for a moment under the pressure, grinding against ribs. Sebastian lets him, waits until John has reached his hips before grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down. 

John has a ridiculous and fleeting fear that he will be able to taste Jim on his tongue, feel him slip between his teeth and down his throat. But Sebastian’s tongue on its own is a pure thing, dumb muscle reexamining flesh that it has already traced a hundred times before. His fingers are rough against John’s belt, nothing clever, just a full offensive. They move against each other for a long moment, teeth finding soft places next to shifting bones, hands twisting through hair.

John pulls back a moment and reaches for the bottle of lotion.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m always sure,” Sebastian says, shifting under him and parting his legs. 

The first exploratory touches are awkward and uncomfortable for both of them, John trying not to slip into doctor mode and Sebastian struggling to relax. Slowly but surely the muscles start to relax and movement becomes easier. Sebastian hisses his exhales out between his teeth, eyes closed, as John twists first one finger, then two in and out of him. 

“Fuck, Johnny, just fucking do it,” he growls.

“I’m not going to--”

“Johnny,” he warns, pushing up onto his elbow and yanking on John’s hair. “It’s fine.”

John finishes off the bottle of lotion, turning the sheets to a slick mess, and lines himself up.

“Tell me if it’s--”

“Jesus _Christ_!” Sebastian bellows, so John stops arguing and shoves in. Sebastian goes rigid, breath knocked out of him and eyes shut tight. John wants to feel guilty, but his eyes threaten to roll back in his head at the sensation.

“Are you--?”

“Yeah, fine, yeah,” he gasps. “Just give me a sec.”

John holds himself painfully still until Sebastian lets out a long breath and nods. They start to move fractionally against each other, John torn between watching Sebastian’s face for reaction and simply closing his eyes and giving up. 

“ _Harder_ ,” Sebastian whispers through clenched teeth. John obliges, eyes falling shut and spine rolling just a hair shy of viciously. Sebastian cries out and grabs at his back, but doesn’t push him away so John keeps moving. He cries out again, arms tightening across John’s shoulders, and something in him sounds broken. John thrusts a few more times, harder than he wants to, until the sounds Sebastian makes force him to stop, groaning, and opens his eyes.  
“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then you’re missing the point,” he growls, brutally. Sebastian’s face is screwed up, sweaty, wet at the corner of his eyes. John pulls out with a force that makes him grunt, knocking off the arms around him.

“No.”

“Fuck, _Jesus FUCK_ ,” Sebastian howls, dropping back against the pillows and driving his fists into his eyes.

“I’m not your fucking . . . whip. Your little self-harm . . . whatever.”

“Johnny, for the love of _Christ_ \--”

“Look at me. You _look at me_.”

Sebastian does, sweat matting his hair down, lips nearly bloody. 

“You don’t get to use me. Maybe I have got ‘Property Of’ stamped on my back, maybe we both do. But you do not use me like that. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Sebastian yanks at his own hair and stares up at the ceiling. “Fine. Come here.” He pulls John in an sucks at his lip, winding his arms back around his hips. “You don’t have to hurt me,” he murmurs. “If you don’t want to. I don’t care.”

They slide together in this more familiar configuration, Sebastian rolling on top of him for a few long minutes. John pushes him back over and he spreads his thighs again, muttering against John’s mouth. 

“Yes, come on.”

John pulls back, Sebastian’s mouth following his for a few inches. He pushes Sebastian down by the shoulders, firm and unyielding, and stares directly at him.

“No, no, it’s not-- You have to say ‘Stop.’”

“What? Jesus, Christ, Johnny--”

“You have to tell me No. Now. You have to stop it.”

“Why?” He pushes against John’s hands but John will not budge.

“Because I won’t. I’ll let this go wherever it . . .” He desperately tries to think how to continue. Sebastian struggles slightly against him, annoyed.

“So, what? Why is that--?”

“It’s different, this whole thing is different and I should never have--”

“Johnny. Hey, hey.” Sebastian pushes against him again, straining for his mouth. He settles for grabbing his wrists firmly and running a hand up to his shoulder.

“What’s the problem? Why now?

“Because I’m on holiday and you’re not.” 

He releases Sebastian’s shoulders and leans back onto his heels. Sebastian follows, unconsciously, confusion sliding slowly across his face before falling off the other side. For a split second--like one frame in a roll of old film, easy to miss or ignore--he looks so sad. Just impossibly sad. The knife wound of his mouth crumples in on itself. And then it’s gone. But John feels it like a pressure between his ribs, and he finds his throat tight when he says it again.

“You have to stop it.”

Sebastian hardens his face and tips his jaw up, absurdly defiant in his position underneath John’s hips. He grabs John by the hair and pulls him down, biting at his lip, his cheek, his ear, before locking an arm around his back and muttering, “I won’t.”

John feels guilt wash over him with every breath, but can’t stop himself from kissing back, from pressing himself against the battered body bellow him and breathing him in.

Sebastian kisses him and doesn’t stop, even as their hips move awkwardly against each other, as John maneuvers himself inside with a shove that’s just a hair rougher than he means to. Still Sebastian doesn’t stop, leaking groans from the corner of his mouth. John is so grateful, so painfully grateful that he doesn’t have to ask. He wouldn’t know how to ask. “Please don’t stop kissing me.” “Please, don’t let go of my mouth. I’m afraid of what might come out.” He allows himself to be thankful and starts to drown in warm, wet softness, marveling that any part of Sebastian could possibly be so soft. He drowns himself in it and pretends that the name he’s afraid to breathe is _Sherlock_.

  


Afterwards John fetches the cloth from the bathroom and cleans them both, untucking the sheet from underneath Sebastian’s bulk and finding a dry spot to move to the center of the bed. He settles in with Sebastian sprawled next to him, shoulders touching.

“You alright?” he asks quietly.

“I’ll be fine. You?”

John nods. “Was--” he is hesitant to finish the question. “Was Jim there, at all? When we-- When, you know.”

“No.”

“You going to sleep now?”

Sebastian is quiet for a long moment. “Don’t think so. I feel-- I don’t know. I want to _do_ something, but I don’t know what.”

He settles onto his side, head resting on John’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know,” he says again and starts tracing patterns across John’s ribs.

John thinks for a moment.

“Draw me something.”

Sebastian hums and shifts his cheek against John’s shoulder, hair tickling his face.

“Mmm . . . what?”

“Draw me something. Have a pen.” John reaches over to the bedside table, dislocating Sebastian from his side, and hands him a ball point.

“Draw what?”

John shrugs. 

Sebastian sighs. “On what?”

John lies back against the pillows, hands behind his head. Sebastian stares at him and he looks significantly down at his chest. 

“Really?”

John shrugs. “Keep your mind busy.”

“Fine.” Sebastian grumbles and sets himself astride John’s thighs, running the flat of him palm across this new canvas. “What do you want?”

“A map.”

“Of what?”

John thinks for a moment. “São Paulo.”

Sebastian looks at him for a moment, then scoots off his legs. 

“Oh no. No you don’t.”

“What? Why?”

“None of this . . . soppy shit.” he stays on the bed but looks profoundly uncomfortable.

“What do you mean?”

“I never took you for the romantic type.”

John laughs, laying back again. “Sebastian. It’s a test. London would be too easy, São Paulo was months ago. I bet you can’t do it.”

Sebastian contemplates this, weighing the challenge against any dangers presented by John’s exposed chest. He finally takes his place on his legs again and sticks the tip of the pen in his mouth, thinking.

“You’ve got a bit of an oral fixation, don’t you? Pens, knives, pri--”

“Shut up. Artist working.”

John smirks but falls silent. 

Sebastian begins. He starts in the center of John’s chest, right over his sternum.

“Hotel,” he mutters. “This is only where we were, you know. The places we went.”

“That’s the hotel? Now who’s the romantic--”

Sebastian grabs a hold of his nipple and twists until he yelps, smacking him upside the head and leading to a few minutes of roughhousing. John laughs with a sudden burst of energy and catches him in a headlock. “What are you, seven?”

“Will you sit still and let me work?”

John huffs and lies back.

Sebastian is not silent when he draws, he mumbles to himself and often breaks off, trying to remember a detail or estimating a measurement. John teases at first, but falls into a kind of daze, watching delicate lines of ink spread across his chest like time-lapse photography, neighborhoods appearing out of nowhere. Sebastian remembers more than John had even noticed at the time: trash bins on street corners, the shut-down mechanic’s shop four blocks from their hotel, a group of school kids blocking the road at a busy intersection, tiny black dots with a tiny black rope strung between them. 

John’s scar poses a problem, the straight, precise lines breaking up as the canvas buckles and twists under them. Two lines appear between Sebastian’s eyebrows as he tries to make them behave, resorting to long trails of dots when a smooth stroke doesn’t work.

He eventually sits back, looking unsatisfied.

“Well.” His voice is too loud in the room, his weight suddenly too much. “It’s not exact, but we can call it art.” 

John can’t think of anything to say, wishing he would be quiet and go back to the mumbling haze of a moment ago. He looks up at the ceiling and wonders if he could fake sleep.

Sebastian rolls off his legs, and John is glad. He lets his eyes fall closed, fingers sliding through his own hair. Sebastian curls up next to him and rests his cheek against the rise of John’s chest, right over the burnt-out shell of the restaurant.

“You’ll get ink on your face if you sleep like that,” John mumbles, eyes still closed. “You’ll be all black and streaky.”

Sebastian mutters something rude in reply, but John can’t hear him. He doesn’t move, so John gives up and reaches over to shut out the light, imagining that he can feel a city hum and whisper just beneath his skin.


	15. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stakes get higher.   
> (Head warnings, please)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've warned for most of this stuff before. Graphic descriptions of violence and death/injury of a child are all in the warnings. People, I mean it. If you need to skip this chapter, I totally understand. I'll tell you what happens, if you like.

They rise early. John’s chest is smeared with ink and sleep-sweat, and Sebastian has an oddly bruised look to him as he blinks himself awake. John only teases him a little before going to the shower to scrub himself down.

“When do you turn thirty?” John asks through the open door, shower curtain left bunched against the wall.

“Hm? August.” Sebastian looks up at him from the sink, toweling off his face and hair. “Why is that such a thing with you?”

“What?”

“How old I am. Why is that such a hang-up?”

“It-- It’s not! I was just wondering, I don’t know--”

“No, you keep bringing it up.”

John shrugs and sticks his head back under the water, letting the rush in his ears muffle Sebastian’s voice.

“I know why it is. You don’t actually mean I _am_ young. You mean I _was_ young. I’m a--what do you call it? Demographic. I’m a demographic.”

John leans out of the water and watches him. Sebastian doesn’t acknowledge him when he speaks, going through his morning routine.

“Or statistic? Is that the right word? One of those newspaper words. ‘Youth,’ right? ‘Troubled youth.’” He chuckles slightly and sticks his toothbrush in his mouth, talking while brushing. “It’s not that you think I’m that young, Johnny. I just make you feel young.”

“How do you mean?”

“When’s the last time you had to deal with somebody like me? Can’t hardly read, arrested three times before I was sixteen, the kind that joins the Army because we’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“In--”

“The Army doesn’t count. That’s a different world. You’re not the same there as you are anywhere else.”

John turns off the water. “This is a different world. You and me, how we’re living. Pass the towel?”

Sebastian spits and grabs the towel, wiping his mouth on it before handing it over.

“You know what I mean. Doctor John Watson wouldn’t have a thing to do with someone like me. Unless I got my head busted, of course.”

There is little poison in his voice; his eyes flick an affectionate challenge in John’s direction for a brief second.

John doesn’t take it.

“It’s strange to hear that name.”

“Hmm.” Sebastian straightens and grins at him. “That’s why it makes you feel young. The last time you knew--really knew, talked to, whatever--someone like me was in school. If things had gone according to plan . . . well. You wouldn’t need to know I’m alive.”

“What do you know about my plan?”

Sebastian grins at him. “Please. We always know what you want.”

John steps out of the shower, crossing to his suitcase. “Is that so? And who’s ‘we’?”

Sebastian follows him with a wolfish smile. “Guys like me. People like me, you know. Because we all want _be_ you. Don’t we?”

“Are you trying to make me uncomfortable?”

Sebastian smiles wider. “Is it working?”

John snorts and pulls on his trousers. He stretches luxuriously, twisting at the waist, but his satisfied sigh is interrupted by the sight of a brown envelope just barely poking under the door.

“What’s this?”

“What?”

John opens the door, cautiously, feet set and arms slightly tensed. The hallway is empty, half in shadow thanks to one busted-out lamp hanging from the wall. He leans down and carefully lifts the envelope by opposite corners, dropping it gently onto the mattress. Sebastian comes over, pulling on his T-shirt and eyeing the envelope warily.

“Any note or anything?”

“Just this. Can I have your blade?”

Sebastian grabs his switchblade from the bedside table, flicks it open, and passes it handle-first to John. John turns the envelope over with the tip of the knife. It’s plain and brown and new--not like Mburu’s much-handled one. Only one name is carefully scripted across it: _Mr. Moran._ Underneath the name is a neatly printed message: _A small piece of advice._

“What? Is that all there is?”

John shrugs and picks it up gently, slipping the blade under the flap and slicing it open. “If Sherlock were here, he’d be able to tell us what kind of pen, who wrote it, what he had for breakfast--”

“Sherlock’s not here.” 

John grunts and tips the contents of the envelope onto the mattress. Nothing explodes, no mysterious powders or gases rise to engulf them, no snakes or scorpions slither or scurry towards the dark corners of the room. And yet, after the second it takes John to absorb what he is seeing, he lurches backward into the wall, biting down on the side of his hand hard enough to nearly draw blood. Sebastian does not move.

“Fuck!” John gasps. He takes a step forward to look again, then turns away grabs his head. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Sebastian appears to be made of stone, chest not rising, not blinking, the tendons standing out in his right arm the only indication that he is alive.

Finally, after a long moment of John squeezing his eyes shut, Sebastian sucks a shuddering breath through his teeth.

“God. _Damn_ it.” It’s barely voiced, hardly more than a whisper. It sounds like razor blades coming up his throat. Sandpaper. John can’t keep his eyes closed any longer, the images flashing in negative behind them. He gathers himself, rises, and approaches the bed again.

They are photographs. Two 8x10s and a handful of 4x6s. They are spattered with dried blood. John is immediately reminded of Mburu’s photographs and Chen the Dancing Man, but this is worse. 

Her eyes are gone, her face is covered in bruises with a large burn across her forehead. Her ears are severed, lying next to her head on a concrete floor. One of the smaller photos is a close up of the side of her head--a blood-stained cloth is visible next to it, and someone had wiped the skin enough to clearly reveal the grotesquely earless hole. Her lips are stitched together with thick, coarse floss. There are knots in the thread where it had broken and needed to be re-tied. The stitching is crooked--John tries not follow the path of logic, that the mouth must have been moving, that stitching a corpse would be much neater. 

He sees these things as separate pieces, fragmented like the photographs, forcing his brain to delay the inevitable moment of assembly.

“Oh, Jesus,” he breathes again when he recognizes her. Just barely, partly by her ragged blue dress, which is torn open down the middle.

“What was her name?” he asks, tearing his eyes away to look at Sebastian. Sebastian hasn’t blinked, but his eyes are flicking from one picture to another.

“Divya,” he whispers, and he picks up one of the large, full-body photos. “I knew her father.” His young informant is lying on her back, laid out like a cadaver. Through the split in her dress, they can see a gaping wound in her stomach, all blacks and reds.   
John forces himself to look at all of the pictures, to really look. He’s not sure if he’s looking for clues or punishing himself or performing some kind of twisted tribute to the girl. 

“What-- Sebastian, what’s that?” There is a chunk of flesh on the ground beside her in one of the pictures, though there doesn’t seem to be a corresponding wound.

Sebastian opens his mouth to speak, but only rasps out empty air. “Her tongue,” he finally says roughly, taking the photos from John’s slack hands and shoving them back into the envelope. “She listened and watched and then she told.”

John’s head spins for a moment. He makes it to the bathroom in time to vomit, grunting out non-words, eyes burning. He runs the tap and splashes his face, stumbles to the fridge for a bottle of water, and rinses his mouth.

Leaning against the bathroom sink, he looks around at the little room. His mind flashes suddenly to the night before, the ugly perfection of it, and he is suddenly and irrationally livid. Not, in this moment, for the mutilation of a child or for the impossibly twisting mystery, but rather for the destruction of this room in his mind. From this moment on, when he thinks of this room it will be blood and vomit and horror, but fifteen minutes ago it meant-- He’s not sure exactly what it meant, but it was something important and now it’s ruined. He vows to never think of it again.

He pulls himself together when he hears Sebastian’s voice from the bedroom.

“Naima, listen to me. No, just listen.” He’s pacing with his phone pressed white-knuckled against his ear.

“Forget the Watson project. It doesn’t matter anymore. Shut down everything. Get out, leave the country, tell no one. I know. . . . It doesn’t matter. Naima-- Naima! Listen to me: This is Endgame. . . Okay. No-- no, don’t tell me. This is the last time I’m contacting you. Ever. You leave, you tell no one, you don’t look back.”

Naima says something that makes Sebastian stop pacing. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“No, he can’t. Tell him he can’t. Fuck. . . . Well keep him away from computers, then! Get him a fucking dog or something! Fuck!”

There is a long pause, during which Sebastian sinks down onto the bed.

“You know what you have to do? Tell him I’m dead. He’s not there now, is he? Okay, good. Tell him I died, that’s why you have to leave. I got killed and Johnny called you, okay? That’s what you tell him. I don’t _care_ that it’s a lie, Naima! What does it matter if it’s a lie? That’s what you have to tell him. And you have to believe it, okay? This is Endgame. I’m a dead man. You never knew me. Okay?”

He stares pointedly down at his knees as she talks, free hand balling into a fist. “Don’t. Please don’t. Okay? Good luck.”

John can hear a shadow of her protesting voice as Sebastian pulls the phone away from his ear and snaps it shut. He doesn’t look up as John approaches and reaches out to him.

He shakes his head sharply before John’s hand can make contact. John watches him for a long moment, then says very clearly, “Sebastian.”

Sebastian doesn’t respond.

“Sebastian, it’s not your--”

He flinches, almost violently, and John shuts up. He looks bruised, more so now than when he woke up this morning streaked with São Paulo. He still will not look at John.

“Stand up,” John says, softly. He does not. “Sebastian. Please. I need . . .” He isn’t sure how to finish the sentence, but it doesn’t matter. Sebastian stands, reluctantly, eyes on some patch of floor over John’s shoulder. When John leans against him he stands stiff for a long moment. John turns his face into Sebastian’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut and allowing himself a shuddering exhale. With his eyes closed, pressed against the soft cotton of Sebastian’s T-shirt, he can pretend that the lights are out and he is invisible. 

Sebastian’s arms slide around him as though against their own will. It is a slow and awkward embrace, both bodies taking long moments to adjust to each other. John’s hands twist the back of the T-shirt, stretching it, and Sebastian crushes half the breath out of his lungs, but it doesn’t matter. John wishes for a knife, any blade with which to peel off the inside of his eyelids. The slideshow of body parts is broken here and there by a moving memory of the little laughing girl, or the boy in the wheelchair, or Sebastian lying on the sofa in São Paulo, or Sherlock grinning wickedly in a London cab. It always flashes back to blood and severed flesh. 

Sebastian is still holding his phone, crushing it into John’s back. John decides to be blind, to only feel. He feels the hard plastic of the phone against his ribs. He feels Sebastian’s nose move in his hair, the ridge of his forehead where it presses into John’s scalp. The uneven breath beneath his chest.

When he can, he pulls away and looks Sebastian in the eye.

“What do we do?”

Sebastian moves his hands to John’s shoulders, absentmindedly tapping his fingers.

“It looks like we’re fucked. I don’t know how--”

“What do we do?”

Sebastian shrugs, a weak version of a smirk on his face. “Keep going, I guess. We just keep going.”

“And whoever did this?”

Sebastian shrugs again. “Either they’ll find us or we’ll find them. For now, we finish what we set out to do.”

John nods. He doesn’t ask _And then what?_ The next step is to leave the hotel. Find Liu Qing. Beyond that . . .

“Come on, then. Pack up. And get rid of those.”

Sebastian grunts in agreement, but slips the envelope into his suitcase. John, as usual, says nothing.


	16. All the Way Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liu is found, and bits begin to fall together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. This chapter is not perfect, but if I don't get something out before too many more months go by, I will actually just straight up never write another word of this story. Which would be a bummer, as the epilogue is already done, and that would be a waste of English. So. Edits will probably happen at some point.  
> Plot-wise, this is my big Hail Mary (which has been planned since before this fic is a thing.) So. You might hate it! That's fine. There are literally thousands upon thousands of other fics to read. But thanks for sticking with me this long, y'all. That's mad cool of you.

They don’t speak much on the way back to the apartment building. They end up on the top floor, again, silently agreeing to work “ _ALL THE WAY DOWN_ ,” as per Moriarty’s instructions.

“How are you feeling?” John asks as the lift stutters to a halt and the number 12 illuminates above the door. Sebastian doesn’t react. John nods. 

“Two by two,” Sebastian mumbles. “All the way down.” He yanks at his hair and scrubs a hand across his eyes. “What the fuck, Jim?”

The door opens, but they hesitate a moment before going through. Sebastian regards the unwelcoming brown wall across the hallway. John stares at the elevator buttons, 1 through 12 with unreadable instructions underneath. Something about the order of it annoys him, the neat double row. 

“Two by two,” he says slowly. “Two by two.” He presses them deliberately, in pairs, and they light up, flickering. For a long moment, nothing happens. Sebastian lets out a held breath and John huffs an embarrassed laugh.

The doors slam shut and the lights flicker off. There is a slow, quiet ticking for a few seconds and then the lift falls. John feels his feet almost lift off the floor as it hurtles downward, no screaming of steel or scraping of concrete, just total, silent freefall.

Sebastian’s searching fingers find John’s sleeve and twist. John grabs onto his wrist and grits his teeth, unsure how to properly brace for impact. Suddenly, just seconds before the inevitable crash, the lift shudders and halts, gently thumping down at the bottom of the shaft. Most of the lights flicker back on and John and Sebastian stare at each other, gasping. 

There is a pleasant _ding_ and the doors slide open to reveal what John first thinks must be another dimension. A fairyland, maybe. Or possibly hell.

The floor, walls, and ceiling are covered entirely in plush red carpet, and small glass-shaded lamps fill every available flat surface. Some are plugged into power-strips in a tangled web of cords, while others appear to be candles. The electric lamps hum and the candles flicker, and John has to will his eyelids not to droop. A few low tables are scattered at random around the room, surrounded by pillows. Two of the tables hold half-assembled rifles and lose cartridges, and ammunition belts are draped almost decoratively between a coatrack and a wall sconce. A bookshelf occupies one corner, which seems to hold and equal number of books and what appear to be cattle prods. There is one other door in the room, which is barely visible behind a tall, elegantly painted folding screen.

Sebastian moves first, stepping tentatively onto the carpet as though it were a minefield. John follows him and imagines himself walking into a warm, humid mouth, feet sinking slightly into a bright red tongue. He shudders a bit.

Sebastian whistles. “Liu?” he calls softly. John reaches out for his arm, but changes his mind. Sebastian nudges one of the tables with his foot, rattling a pile of cartridges against a lone rifle stock. A few bullets roll off to land silently on the carpet.

“What. The fuck,” John whispers, and Sebastian shrugs.

The screen shifts in front of the door to reveal a woman. She must be at least six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair plastered to her skull and twisted into a severe knot at the back of her head. She wears dark green jungle camouflage that looks at least a size too big for her, with two ammunition belts criss-crossing her chest. She is barefoot, and John can see her toenails, fingernails, and lips exactly match the bright blood-red of the room. 

“Miss Qing,” Sebastian says with an insolent nod of the head. She smiles sweetly back at him, bright red lips curling up and dark eyes crinkling at the corners. She looks like a young girl, absurdly enough, until she picks up one of the low tables, dropping more cartridges to the ground, and smashes it across the side of Sebastian’s head. He falls in a heap, cursing and groaning, and John is so taken aback that he fumbles for his gun, unsure quite what to do. Qing drops her smile and sighs.

“I hoped you wouldn’t find me. I don’t need any more trouble.”

John kneels beside Sebastian, eyeing the woman warily. She doesn’t move towards any of the guns, instead placing her hands on her hips and nodding to him. “Go on, he’s fine.”

John reaches out to turn Sebastian’s face. He’s bleeding slightly where the corner of the table caught him, but doesn’t appear too damaged. He pulls away and slumps against the carpeted wall, huffing out an irritated breath.

“What--?” John begins, but doesn’t know where to start.

“We have history,” she replies simply. John notices that he accent is surprisingly American.

“We don’t have _that_ much history,” Sebastian grumbles, sticking a finger into his mouth to feel his gums. He pulls it out and it’s coated with a thin film of bloody saliva. He wrinkles his nose.

John gapes, question after question cycling through his head.

“Why are you in jungle camo?” he blurts, then grimaces as she barks a laugh.

She shifts one of the ammunition belts on her chest to reveal a ragged hole.

“Genuine article US Marine casualty, 1968.” John stares at her and Sebastian shakes his head, pulling himself to his feet.

“Why did you want to see us?”

“What?” She lets the belt fall and takes a step back toward the door, wary.

“You sent us a message. Not a nice one. Tell me, did Chen know he was going to be your messenger boy, or did he just piss you off one too many times? Had a corpse laying around, might as well use it for, you know, dramatic emphasis?”

“How do you know about Chen?”

John rises slowly, holding out a hand to stop Sebastian speaking. “You didn’t take the photographs?”

“What photographs?”

“You didn’t kill him, then?” Sebastian’s voice is harsh. Her face twists unpleasantly.

“No, I did not kill my brother. I-- I needed my brother. We’ve been out of the network for months now. I take care of this neighborhood, nothing more. My brother and I, we were small-time again, and we were better that way.”

“Really?” Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “Jim’s gone and everyone’s happy, no trouble, go quietly back into the shadows?”

“You know how I work, Sebastian. If I had killed my brother, he would have one bullet to the back of the head. I only play with my food when I want information. What could Chen know that I didn’t? He was just . . . gone. One day he didn’t come home, so I went out after him. All I found were pieces. And the packages. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? They were with his body when I found it. I gathered up what I could find and I burned him, but I kept the packages.” She opens her mouth to say something else, then shuts it and turns towards a bookshelf in the corner.

John follows, thinking, with his fingers pressing his chin.

“Do you want them?” Sebastian asks, bluntly. “The photographs, I mean. We’ve got them.”

She clenches her jaw and shakes her head. She pulls out a chunk of books, revealing a wall safe.

“A Hayman? Really? That’s it?”

She gives him a withering look. “If anyone gets down here, it’s because they know how. Why waste money on Fort fucking Knox?”

She draws two packages out of the safe, one side of each stained dark brown. They are nondescript padded envelopes, unmarked besides the blood and their names, neatly scripted across the front. _Mr. Flynn. Mr. Moran._

John takes his and looks to Sebastian before opening it. Sebastian shrugs, nonchalant, but he hesitates. John opens his, first.

Qing watches, curiously, and each man empties his package. John pulls out two small pieces of paper: an airline boarding pass and a photograph.

“Not another one,” he mutters as he turns it over. The words die in his throat as he recognizes the profile in the picture. Dark hair, short and barely curling, proud jaw and suspicious eyes cutting across a dusty street. In the background, on the horizon, the dome of a mosque. 

“Sherlock,” he breathes, without thinking. Sebastian doesn’t look at it, grabbing the boarding pass instead.

“Tel Aviv,” he says. “Air China, One-Way.”

“Israel. Jerusalem. Billiard Room,” John mumbles, still staring at the photograph. He’s real. He’s real. _He’s real._ All this time with only faith and tiny shreds of evidence, and here he is. “He’s in Jerusalem.”

John feels something like a weight lift off his shoulders. Not lifting, exactly, but shifting. Like when his pack settles into the groove of his shoulder and neck, and his spine straightens out. He feels strong, somehow.

“Maybe,” Sebastian looks skeptical, opening his own envelope. A similar boarding pass slides out, along with a small pocket Bible. “Fucking-- Bibles, again.”

“He’s in Jerusalem. We’re going to Jerusalem.”

Sebastian turns the boarding passes over in his hands. “Someone got us tickets for tomorrow, leaving from Shanghai to Tel Aviv, and left them for Qing to find? That’s doesn’t-- That doesn’t make sense.”

“How did they know you’d find them? Is it that easy to get to me?” Qing pipes up from the corner, looking back and forth between the men and their papers.

John shakes his head, smiling grimly. “It’s a game. Like all of Jim’s games. He’s one step ahead, all the time. He knows what you’re going to do before you even think of it.”

“Except he’s dead. I got rid of his body myself-- I had his blood under my nails for weeks. He’s not--”

“What if he set it up? What if he set _you_ up?”

“Why? What difference--?”

“He was insane! Wasn’t he? Isn’t he?” He turns to Qing for confirmation. She just shrugs.

“Whoever wants you boys in Israel,” she says seriously, “cut out my brother’s eyes and hacked him into pieces. This is one gift horse I would look carefully in the mouth, if I were you.”

“We’re going to Jerusalem,” John says firmly, taking the tickets back from Sebastian and folding them neatly. “Sherlock is in Jerusalem. We’re going.”

“Johnny,” Sebastian starts slowly. “We don’t even know-- Who’s Jerusalem?”

“What?”

“Which one is Jerusalem? Billiard Room and--”

“Plum. Professor Plum.”

“We have nothing on him. We’re going to waltz into the Holy Land with what? A prayer?”

“We’ve done more with less.”

“Bullshit. They’re one-way tickets, Johnny? You know what that looks like.”

“Sebastian. We’re going to Israel.” He still looks skeptical, so John sticks the tickets in his pocket and takes a step towards the door. “I’m going, anyway. If you want to stay, be my guest. I’m sure you and Qing have a lot to catch up on.”

“Johnny--”

Qing snorts and turns to reorganize her shelves.

“It was good working with you, Sebastian. I guess this is where we split.” He goes to the door, refusing to look over his shoulder. He keeps his hand on the papers in his pocket, like he can feel the heat of Sherlock’s skin bleeding through the paper and into his fingers.

He’s got one foot in the elevator when he hears a fervent “ _Fuck_ ” from behind him. Sebastian is next to him by the time he turns around.

“Thank you, Ms. Liu,” John calls out, spine inspection-straight and a hint of a smile on his lips. She grunts and bends to rearrange her tables.

“If you end up on the wrong end of a butcher knife, don’t come crying to me. Just hit ‘Door Close’ to get out. And please do. Get out, I mean.”

Sebastian hits the button, looking uncomfortable. He fidgets with the tiny book, his Bible, until John grabs his sleeve to still him.

“Is there anything useful in there?”

Sebastian flips it open and finds an address written neatly on the inside of the cover.

“This look like an Israeli address to you?” Sebastian asks.

John shrugs. “We’ll find out.” He leads the way out into the lobby. He is about to exit the building when Sebastian’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Is this trap looking a little obvious to you? Like we’re _supposed_ know know it’s a trap?”

John grins, but his eyes are steel. “It’s a trap, sure. But Sherlock’s in it. We have a mission, Seb: Get him out. Clear and simple. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Sebastian doesn’t respond, though he looks as though he’d like to.

“Where’s that Bible verse? The one that keeps coming up?”

Sebastian hands John the Bible and leans against the wall by the door. John flips through it until he finds the right verse.

“Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant knoweth not was his lord doeth: but I have called you friends; for all things that I have heard of my Father I have made known unto you,” he reads.

“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?” Sebastian kicks his heel against the wall, frustration buzzing around him. “That would be like Jim, it really would, to throw in some stupid puzzle that has _nothing_ to do with anything, just to fuck with--”

“Maybe he wanted you to know he considered you his friend. Maybe _this_ is his note. His suicide note. He’s telling you you’re more than just a servant, he loved--”

Sebastian whirls on him and freezes. John stops speaking.

“Not. Another. Word. Johnny.”

John shrugs. He’s more than arms-length away, so he’s safe enough to keep talking.

“Fine. Not sentiment, then. What about his father?”

Sebastian stares a moment, thrown. “I don’t know. What about him?”

“What did he tell you about his father? Anything? Could be a clue or something. ‘All things I have heard of my Father I have made known to you.’”

“He-- He hated his father. I think. Didn’t hardly talk about him at all. He’s alive, though. Or was. Some-- A teacher. He’s a teacher. Trinity or Queens or someplace.” Sebastian smiles suddenly. “I do remember one thing. He was a Junior.”

“What?”

“Jim. He was Jimmy Junior. He hated it. That's probably why he hated the old man--he got wrapped up in little things like that. People touching his things. His name. I don't know why he never changed it. I know he hated it. The old man taught . . . maths or something. Some kind of science? Jim said he was the dullest bloke in the world." He chuckles and shoulders open the lobby door. "I remember-- he said, 'Picture a very beige room, Sebastian, with beige wallpaper and carpeting and a beige sofa and a little beige table. With some dried flowers for decoration. That's Professor James Moriarty.'"

They are quiet for a long moment, thinking and waiting for a cab to come by.

"Trinity,” John mutters. “Ireland? Nothing else seems to point there.”

“We could keep it in mind. If, you know, we make it out of Israel alive. See what the old professor has to say.”

“Sherlock can help. When we find him. He’ll see whatever we’re missing. He will.” 

John spots a cab parked a few blocks away and heads toward it, jerking his head at Sebastian to follow. Sebastian shuts his mouth and swallows, voice dying on his lips. He nods, blows out a long breath, then takes off after John. 


	17. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another message, equally as unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not perfect, but if I don't post it now I never will. I've been away for a while. Maybe reread from the top - I know I had to.
> 
> If you're still reading this, you are the light in the darkest corners of my life. Go you.

Sebastian won’t sit still for the entire flight. He bounces his knees and twitches and scratches the back of his neck and the center of his chest and clicks his tongue until John rips the back cover off his paperback crime novel and shoves it at him. Sebastian nicks a pen from the sleeping man in the row behind them, and spends the rest of the time drawing  a tiny map of the plane. John contorts his elbow so he can pillow his head on his arm and pretends to be asleep.

The bus to Tel Aviv is crowded, and Sebastian falls asleep jammed between their bags and the window. There’s a boy across the aisle from John loudly chewing his way through a gallon bag of raisins. It’s almost a ninety minute trip, and the kid picks out one raisin, chomps it down, waits for a second, then grabs another. Over and over. He doesn’t look anywhere but straight ahead, barely seems to notice the shifting of the bus around him or how he’s nearly falling into the aisle. John is torn between laughing aloud, throwing up, and shooting the little fucker between the eyes.

_That’s a very Sebastian thing to think_ , he scolds himself, looking over at the man himself, whose face is drawn into a sleeping scowl. _He’s gotten into my brain now. I had better be able to get him out again._ He rubs his eyes and shuts himself up.

The bus swerves around a pothole and John stares down at his hands. They’re shaking. They have been since last night, just barely perceptible. Sebastian noticed, of course, but he just bought them both extra large coffees and said, “Tired?” John had nodded, and Sebastian let it be.

Sherlock would not have let it be. Sherlock _will_ not let it be.

John presses his forehead to the seat in front of him and breathes evenly. In for seven, out for eleven. There is a piece of greying-pink chewing gum stuck to the leg of the seat in front of him, and he stares and stares and stares at it until his vision blurs and he has to practice breathing again.

_You can’t be in shock. You are fine. Nothing’s happened yet. You are almost finished. Finished. Finished._

Sebastian stirs next to him and he pulls away, losing his balance and slipping into the aisle. He jostles the kid as he rights himself, mumbling a quick “sorry” as he does. The kid turns slowly, pops a raisin into his mouth, and blinks at him. John looks down.

They stumble off at a deserted corner in front of a video store, shaking the stiffness from their shoulders.

“Where should we start? They brought us here, so here we are.” John digs his boarding pass out of his pocket, as if there were some hidden code he hadn’t noticed yet.

“Let’s get something to eat first, yeah? I’m starving.”

“Seb, they brought us here _today_. We can’t waste--”

“We have time to eat something.”

He sets his jaw and takes off ahead of John, looking down alleyways as a force of habit. John follows, irritated, but allows himself to be led into a small cafe.

“We should probably find somewhere to stay,” Sebastian muses as they wait for their food.

“We don’t even know how long we’re going to be here. If Sherlock-- We need to figure out how this works, when we find him. Sebastian, we haven’t talked--”

“Food’s here.”

They eat in silence. The food is undercooked and tasteless, but John finds himself unexpectedly ravenous. Every time he takes a breath to speak Sebastian coughs, shifts in his chair, takes a huge bite of his lunch. John sighs and gives up.

“We don’t know where to start looking,” he says softly, once Sebastian has finished licking grease from his fingers. “We should poke around. Do some sightseeing, maybe.”

“It’s all mosques and temples and churches and things, isn’t it?”

“Probably not. I don’t know, some of the churches are supposed to be--”

“You go ahead. I’ll find a hotel someplace.”

“Not up for church? Bit of good luck before the end of--”

“You want to get on your knees, you go ahead. I’ll find us someplace to stay.”

John watches him eat. He thinks it’s the lack of sleep and the grit in his eyes, but Sebastian appears to be shrinking before his eyes, growing a bit and then shrinking down smaller than before. It makes his gums itch, his skin feel too tight. He wants to strike him, here in this restaurant, make him stand up and lift his face.

“Oh yeah. I forgot. The priests sent your baby daughter to hell so you’re all . . . well. Touchy.”

Sebastian snorts into his bottle of water, finishes in one long swig.

“Right. You go find your clues, I’m going to catch a bit of sleep. I’ll call you when I’ve found a hotel.”

He shoves the chair back with a loud scrape and leaves without another word.

John sits alone for a long moment, teetering somewhere between paralyzed and exhausted. The year that has been passes by him again, passes through him until he feels every day, every hour, every waking moment of Life Without Sherlock. And then he breathes again and Life With Sebastian bleeds in until his head starts aching with the confusion of it.

He rises, shakes out his shoulders, and goes to find a church.

****

The hotel that Sebastian settles on is on the shithole continuum, but not entirely unlivable. He gets a double bed and pays in cash, and the girl at the desk gives him a perfumed business card and a few choice hints about the hotel’s more unspoken services. He gives her a grunt and a glower, but he takes the card. No harm in having options, anyway.

He’s just settling in, washing travel dirt from his face after leaving John a brief message, when the television switches itself on. He launches himself out of the bathroom, hand on his razor, but the room is empty. A few angry exclamations leak through the thin walls as every television in the building does the same. The  crackling buzz of a home recording echoes all around him. A man next door curses and hurls something against the wall.

Sebastian edges over to the bed and sits on the edge, watching the room on the screen come into focus. The camera isn’t far from a blank white wall, set up facing an empty metal folding chair. After a few moments a body is shoved into frame, and it stumbles almost comically before seating itself with a whimper.

“Right. Seb! Um. I’m talking to him, right?” Mburu’s right eye is swollen and purple, rimmed in red, and he speaks with a slight lisp around a missing canine. Sebastian can hear him in stereo as his recorded voice drowns out the neighbors’ complaints. Onscreen, he flicks his eyes to the unseen person behind the camera. “So what do I--”

There’s a mumble from off-screen, unclear.

“You didn’t write a-- Okay. No, man, no that’s fine. I can wing it. Call me your little songbird, ‘cause this is me winging it. Right.” He flashes a brilliant smile and rubs his hands together. “Hello, hello, hello, ladies and gentlemen of Jerusalem! Coming to you live from th-- From somewhere nearby, I’m your host, Anthony Mburu, with special gue--”

A long, thin line slashes across the screen, and the film cuts. When it comes back, the chair is empty again. Mburu stumbles back into frame, limping and quiet.

“Sebastian,” he starts, his eyes jumping back and forth between the camera and something to the side. “You’re on the right track. You’re exactly where you sound--” He leans forward, squinting. “Wait. Exactly where you _should_ be. Balls, Professor, can’t you type it or something? How am I supposed to read that from he--”

Some kind of stick or cane hits his shoulder with a crack. A woman upstairs screams as he crumples in on himself, trying to cover his head.

“I’m just _saying_ , aren’t I? I’m just _saying_ I’m not going to get the message to where you want me to get it if it’s coming out all _garbled_ , you know? Like, who knows what he might end up doing if you’re trying to write ‘ransom’ and it comes out ‘handsome’ or something, I mean did you ever think of _that_ , that sounds like a come-on, I mean I’m not saying, I’m just _say_ \--”

“For God’s sake!” the unseen person bellows, and a hand yanks Mburu off the chair and onto his knees. He’s too close to the camera now; the only part of him still visible is the curve of his shoulder and the hand of the other person, twisted into his collar.

Sebastian classifies it in his mind, like Holmes would. _White, older, silver watch, suit coat, fraying at the cuff._

“Are you going to shut up, or are you going to make me shut you up?” the white man growls, shaking Mburu harder. He’s got a thin voice, clearly articulated but high pitched and reedy.

“I can shut up. That I can do. That’s my speciality, actually. You have no idea how up I can sh--”

Mburu falls abruptly silent. The hand disappears, and Mburu slowly slides back onto the chair. He isn’t looking at the camera at all, now, his focus somewhere lower and to the left. When he speaks again, it’s quiet, monotone, a little shaky. Sebastian inches forward on the bed, hands fisted on his knees.

“You’ve done good work, and it’s time to talk payment,” Mburu reads. “There is a garage not far from your hotel. Follow the signs in the morning. Bring Flynn. Don’t think about coming alone. We are nearing the end of this me--. . . messiness. This messiness. The variables are . . . clearing up. You have done good work.”

He lets out a long, shaky breath and closes his eyes. His face stills, and it sends chills up Sebastian’s arms to see him so blank. He lunges towards the television a second before the shot, hands reaching uselessly towards the glass as Mburu jerks backwards and falls. There are screams from other rooms in the hotel, shouts of horror. A kid starts to cry in the room above. Sebastian is half crouched in the middle of the room, frozen until the screen goes black and then switches to some talk show in a language he doesn’t speak. He steps deliberately forward to turn it off, then walks back to the bed and sits, elbows on his knees with his forehead in his hands.

He’s still there when John knocks on the door, and it takes him what seems like an hour to rise and open it.

“This is nice,” John deadpans, lingering in the doorway peel off a long strip of paint.

Sebastian grunts and pulls him in by the arm, locking the door behind them and pinning John against it.

“Seb, come on.” John tries to push past but Sebastian doesn’t move. “Don’t. This isn’t a good--”

“Just,” Sebastian grits out, pulling at John’s collar. “Just _let_ me, Johnny. Just _let me_.”

“What happened? Are you--”

Sebastian hooks his free hand in the back of John’s belt, pulling at it.

John twists away from him, as much as he can. “Look, we shouldn’t--”

“Just let me.” His voice is all air, almost no pitch to it at all. It isn’t right, it doesn’t suit the harsh heat of the body itself.

John hesitates before sliding a hand up the back of his shirt, anchoring between his shoulderblades.

“Tell me what happened. Seb?”

Sebastian says nothing, mouthing at John’s neck with a loud exhale, crowding him closer.

“Seb?”

“Later,” he breathes into John’s ear. John shivers and shuts his eyes and sinks into him, letting Sebastian push him higher against the door. “Just, just _let me_ \--”

“This is such a bad idea,” he mumbles, bending his knees up to give Sebastian something to hold.

“Johnny, please. Just, just--”

“Yeah,” John sighs, and lets him.


End file.
